


Shadow Hanging Over Me

by Nadare



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Highlander Fusion, Angst, Blood and Injury, Bromance to Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Loss, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Gay Hank Anderson, Immortality, Immortals, M/M, One Shot, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Harm, Suicide, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadare/pseuds/Nadare
Summary: Hank thought losing his family was the worst thing that could have happened to him. It turns out he was wrong. Now part of a strange supernatural game and forced to live on when he'd rather not, Hank struggles to find meaning in his life until he meets a certain android named Connor who slowly shows him that forever isn't such a bad thing.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Jeffrey Fowler, Hank Anderson/Connor, Hank Anderson/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Terminal City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hadesharia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hadesharia/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt and endless patience, hadesharia! I really hope the story is everything you wanted. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biting the bullet.

_A/N: Canon wise, I'm going with the TV series. Not that all the movies were bad, but, uh, continuity is all over the place. Screw ‘em. ^^;_

[Written on and off between 3-8-20 to 8-31-20]

* * *

**_“Shadow Hanging Over Me”_ **

_Chapter One: Terminal City_

**Vancouver, Canada**

**1993**

Hank had been looking forward to the concert for weeks, its timing coming along at the right time to allow him to blow off some steam. Work had been tough, stressed out about proving himself and the upcoming exam that would allow him to move up in the ranks. Patrolman was not a position he wanted to occupy long, not when his aspirations were focused on other loftier goals.

Though money was a bit tight at the moment, Hank had opted for a prime concert ticket, that of the mosh pit. So long as he stayed to the side and avoided the main crowd, it’d be all right.

As the lights went down, the crowd of people around him went silent, holding their collective breath in anticipation. Hank could see figures moving on stage in the darkness, then various spotlights above them lit up the whole arena, the first note of music making Hank grin.

The band launched into the first song of their set, Hank closing his eyes and letting the relentless rhythm take him away from life and all its needless worries. He moved with the crowd, jamming his fist upwards to the beat. Some people regarded the metal music genre needless noise but that wasn’t the point.

It was about pouring your emotions into the void, which gladly swallowed everything one offered it. Rage, joy, you gave metal your all and became faceless in the thrall of it. It put you outside yourself and connected you to something better, or at least it was supposed to.

Until an asshole broke the fragile mood and threw a punch at the person standing next to him.

Everything plunged into chaos as the people pressed around him tried to move away, Hank caught up in the swiftly developing fight by accident. Trying to dodge an oncoming fist, Hank ducked, something in his peripheral vision coming near, the back of an elbow going straight into the side of his face.

Groaning, Hank winced, a trickle of blood running from his nostrils. Tasting copper in the back of his throat, Hank stumbled back, a figure stepping to his side and pressing a piece of cloth to his nose. He blinked as his head started to hurt, forehead pulsing in time with his heart.

“Keep your head down and I’ll help you out of here,” a man’s voice said in his ear, laying an arm over Hank’s shoulders. Not usually one to take help when it was offered, Hank decided to go with it, eager to get out of the hotspot of anger which had boiled over.

It took a few minutes to navigate through the crowd and oncoming security guards, then there was blessed silence as the stranger led Hank into the hallway that ran alongside the main venue, quickly veering into a small room that was well-stocked with medical supplies.

Still a bit dizzy from the blow he’d sustained, Hank looked forward to sitting down when he could.

“Christ, that was wild, wasn’t it?”

Sniffing, his right eye and head starting to properly ache, Hank pulled the cloth away from his nose. “That’s one word for it,” he replied, finding his voice sounded a bit nasally. Hank really hoped he hadn’t broken anything

“Watch,” the man in the bright first-aid vest said. “The band will reorganize in a matter of minutes after security finishes kicking out the offenders and get back to the concert.”

Hank made an effort to focus on the man who looked to be in his late twenties with light skin, blue eyes, slicked-back dark hair, and a trim fit build. He tossed the bloody cloth into a nearby trash can, the bleeding stopped for now. “I guess I should thank you for this.”

The man smiled. “Just doing my job,” he said, leaning forward towards Hank and gingerly touching the bridge of his nose. “Speaking of, your nose is broken.”

“Shit, how the hell do you know that?”

“I volunteered for this event but I am a nurse,” the man replied shortly before walking over to a small kitchenette in the corner, returning with a plastic bag of ice covered in a dishtowel. He handed it to Hank who pressed it gently to his nose. Simply breathing hurt. “You’ll probably have to have that realigned.”

“Of fucking course,” Hank muttered to himself, wishing he had had the sense to get out of the mosh pit faster when things went to hell. He hoped whoever threw the punch was brought up on proper charges.

“It definitely could have been worse all things considered.” The nurse eyed him closely. “You look kind of punchy. Any dizziness?”

The world was wavering slightly around the edges, though Hank thought he was doing his best to hide it. So much for that. “Maybe a little.”

“But not nauseated or drowsy?”

“Why?”

The nurse put his head to the side. “Because you might have a concussion.” He made a soft noise. “Listen…what's your name?”

“Hank.”

“Okay, Hank, I'm Evan,” he said, holding out his hand. Hank slipped his free hand into it and squeezed, Evan’s slow smile showing he was amused at Hank’s attempt at manliness. “Look, I’m a bit worried. I’d like to stay with you a while longer and make sure my fears are unfounded if you don’t mind?”

“It’s your time to waste,” Hank said, shrugging. Truth be told, it was a relief to have someone this worried over him. Evan was easy on the eyes, not that Hank wanted to take an elbow to the face every day to spend time with him. 

“All right then, take a seat, please.” There was a small table and chairs about a foot away from the kitchenette. Hank thought the room was probably used as a break area by the venue employees when the place was in use. 

Eagerly, Hank plopped down into a seat, letting out a sigh of relief, Evan following on his heels to do the same. He reached out and brushed a hand down the countless row of band patches on the back and sleeves of Hank's jacket.

“You really get around, don’t you?” Evan asked, dropping his hand as his face colored. “Not that I was implying you're easy. Shit…you know what I mean.”

Hiding a smile at the show of awkwardness, Hank nodded. “Anytime a band I like hits the area, I try to go.” He gestured to his jacket. “These are just souvenirs.”

Evan settled back into his chair, looking jealous. “I wish I had more free time to go to concerts. Between work and Cole, I'm usually swamped.”

“Cole?” The pain of his nose was starting to dull, Hank removing the bag of ice for a moment.

“My son,” Evan clarified helpfully, displaying all the hallmarks of a loving parent who adored their kid. “He recently turned three. A coworker of mine was nice enough to babysit for me tonight.”

“Your wife not a metalhead?”

Evan's sunny disposition dimmed a touch, the man’s mouth going flat. “She died a year ago rather suddenly.”

Hank hated stepping into delicate emotional minefields like this. He cleared his throat, the taste of blood on his tongue off-putting. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It's fine,” Evan replied, effectively bringing the tricky subject to an end. He narrowed his brow. “You need any pain relievers? I can get some.”

Being fussed over was starting to wear thin. “I can do without for now.”

“Tough guy, huh?”

“Part of my job,” Hank said, tenderly touching his nose. Despite knowing it was broken, it didn’t feel that bad. Maybe he’d only gotten used to the pain with the worst yet to come. 

“What do you do?”

Hank sniffled, a jolt of discomfort shooting through him. Right, he wasn’t doing that again. “I'm a police officer.”

“I always liked a man in uniform,” Evan said, then winced. “Not that I’m coming onto you. Christ, this is so awkward. I've been out of the game for too long.”

The frank honesty on his park was refreshing, though Evan’s timing could have used a little work. “No, you're doing fine. But if you're hoping for more than a phone number, you're shit out of luck.”

Evan smirked. “Because of the facial injury, huh? What a shame.”

To his surprise, Hank found he shared the same sentiment. Evan was a nice guy who'd gone above and beyond in his call of duty and Hank thought his self-conscious nature was kind of adorable. He didn’t seem able to keep any of his feelings hidden, good or bad.

The roar of the crowd inside the main arena echoed loudly, music pouring out of the speakers above them an instant later.

“You feeling up to going back in?”

Hank groaned, halfway wishing he’d opted for cheaper seats up in the nosebleeds, saving himself money and pain. “I've had enough of people being up close and personal for a while, thanks.”

“I can’t say I blame you.” Evan paused, biting his lip as he glanced at the clock on the wall next to them. “Listen, are you hungry by any chance?” 

It'd been a while since he'd been asked out to dinner, Hank raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to stay for the rest of the concert?”

Evan shrugged. “It's close to ending anyway. I know you're probably sick of me, but I'd like to stay close and ensure you’re not going to collapse later on. I have a duty of care after all.” The last had been said with a playful glint in his eyes.

A handsome nurse wanted to metaphorically hold his hand for the evening. Hank was flattered, having to admit he was interested in seeing where this could go.

“I suppose it's all right,” he replied, trying to play it cool, even as he really did look forward to it. Hank had been so busy with work the last few months, dating had fallen to the wayside. “I could have worse company.”

Evan's relief was obvious, making Hank briefly grateful to the asshole who’d hit him in the mosh pit. He didn’t think he’d have met the man opposite him otherwise.

“ _The Number of the Beast_ ,” Hank said automatically. “Best Iron Maiden album hands down.”

“Nah, it’s gotta be _The Seventh Son of the Seventh Son_ ,” countered Evan, playing with the straw in his glass of iced tea. “’Can I Play with Madness,’ ‘The Evil That Men Do.’ Every song on that album is perfect.”

“And you think nothing of ‘Run to the Hills’ or ‘The Children of the Damned?' Come on, man, admit your favorite is the easy choice. The obvious one.”

Evan sat back in his seat, eyeing Hank. “If you’re the age I think you are, when that album came out, you were what, 11, 12? I imagine listening to an album about Satanism was the highlight of your life. I’m shocked your dad let you.”

Putting his head to the side, Hank chuckled. “Wait, how old are you?”

“I’m 37,” Evan confirmed nonchalantly. “Why?”

“Really? You look younger.” Hank had assumed they were the same age, Evan going up in his estimation. He clearly took good care of himself. 

Hank shook his head, having gotten distracted from his main point. “And actually he hated Iron Maiden, it was my mom who was the metalhead. I don’t know how many times she tortured my dad with that album.”

“So it’s nostalgia, huh?” Evan said, a soft smile flashing across his features. “That’s kind of nice. My parents hated me listening to metal, but when it was the only thing keeping their son from punching people, they had to give in and let me after a while.”

“You were a delinquent?” Hank asked in disbelief. “Mr. Handsome Nurse?" He had a hard time imagining Evan as some angry punk who hated the world, not with his easygoing personality.

A tinge of red rose in Evan’s cheeks as he stilled as if needing to rerun Hank’s statement in his mind. “You think I’m handsome?”

Backpedaling, unable to believe he’d said it out loud, Hank coughed awkwardly. “Well, you’re not ugly.”

“Gee, thanks,” Evan replied dryly, looking pleased nonetheless by the backhanded compliment. “And yeah, I was. I almost didn’t finish high school. There was an accident when I was out drinking with a friend and he almost died. His parents were way more understanding than they had any right to be, and I ended up with community service instead of having to go to juvie.

“I served two years at a nursing home. Seeing how worse off everyone else was compared to me pretty much stamped out whatever remained of my rebellious side. It made me want to help people and no one was more than stunned than my parents when I started studying medicine in college.”

Hank smiled. “I can imagine.”

“Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, can I ask why you wanted to become a police officer?” Evan said, leaning an elbow onto the table. They’d opted for a hole-in-the-wall burger place and the food had not disappointed. Neither had the company.

“I was a big fan of mysteries growing up,” Hank confessed. “One thing I shared with my dad. I thought every day would be exciting and different. Turns out life is a little different than fiction.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Now I do it because I can’t stand seeing people treated unfairly. Seeing changes I’ve affected in the lives around me makes the job rewarding no matter how frustrating operating within the confines of the law may be at times.”

Evan chuckled. “Never tempted to join the other side then?”

“Might as drank underage a few times. That was about the extent of my teenage rebellion,” Hank replied gamely. “Not like yours.” 

So far, the date was going far better than it usually did. He’d been with a variety of partners over the years, but each time the relationship didn’t last long. The sex was great, but good chemistry in bed couldn’t solve personality flaws or the lack of commitment on each person’s part.

Tired of such encounters, Hank had started looking for the opposite. Someone he could freely spend time who wasn’t all about physical pleasure. He was starting to think Evan fit the bill and more, questionable album tastes aside.

Time would tell.

* * *

**Three Months Later**

It was the first time he’d stayed the night at Evan’s house, sleep slow to come to Hank as he laid in the bed, Evan’s quiet breathing the only sound regularly breaking the silence around him. He had hardly expected them to last one date, let alone over a dozen. Despite usually finding optimistic people insufferable, Hank found it compelling and comforting in Evan. He was undaunted by much of anything life threw at him.

Even losing his wife Sophie so abruptly had been a mere blip, Evan decided to focus on raising Cole, the last bit of her that she had left behind rather than let her death define his life. Hank supposed that had been both a curse and a blessing at once since traces of Sophie remained in Cole, something Evan had to face every single day.

He was thinking about what he had to tackle in the morning, making a mental list, when Hank dropped off into oblivion.

It was a few hours later when Hank woke, the need to empty his bladder a strong calling he couldn’t ignore. He slipped out of the bed as quietly as possible, the floor cold on his bare feet. Evan didn’t stir as he left the room, remembering after some thought that the bathroom was at the end of the hallway.

His task shortly done, Hank was in the middle of washing his hands when he heard a soft voice from outside the bathroom calling out, “Dad?”

Leaning out of the door once he’d opened it, Hank saw Cole standing in the hallway, clutching a blanket in one hand. He looked lost and scared, looking up at Hank with wide eyes. It was the first time he’d actually been alone with Cole, Even usually a buffer between them.

“Sorry, just me,” Hank said, kneeling down before Cole. The night light plugged in above the bathroom counter provided enough soft light to see by. “What’s the matter?”

Cole brought his blanket up to his face, all but hugging it. “Nightmare. I was invisible. No one could see or hear me, not even Dad.”

Hank touched Cole’s shoulder with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Well, you’re here now. Right in front of me.”

“Yeah?” The uneasiness in his body language slowly lessened, Cole’s blanket falling back down his side to trail against the floor.

“Yeah,” Hank replied lightly, standing up again. “You want me to wake your dad for you?”

Cole’s eyes were hooded as he looked up at Hank. “No, I’m a big boy, but…”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “But?”

Biting his lower lip, Cole asked, “Can you tuck me in?”

It was such an innocent request, Cole clearly rattled from the nightmare he’d had but toughing it out regardless. Hank couldn’t remember if he had been as brave as a kid.

“I can do that,” Hank said, holding out his hand, which Cole readily took, his fingers tight against Hank’s as he closed it. “Shall we go?”

Cole grinned, bouncing a bit on his feet, some of his usual energy returning. “Yeah.”

It was a short journey, Cole’s bedroom a little further down from the bathroom. Hank dodged a pile of toys as they approached the bed, Cole jumping onto his bed once he’d let go of Hank’s hand.

“All right, lay down.” He did so, watching Hank grab the covers at the bottom of the bed and pull them up trustingly. Flinging them over Cole’s head playfully, Hank laughed as Cole squirmed underneath them, his chin eventually popping out from the top.

Cole pulled a face. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” Hank muttered, leaning over the edge of the bed and making sure Cole was completely covered. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Looking pouty, Cole nonetheless yawned, what meager energy he’d mustered dissipating. “Hank?”

“What?” He’d started to turn away from the bed, but shifted back.

“Please stay.” It was a low whisper.

With such bright eyes staring him down, Hank had no choice but to comply. “Until you fall asleep, pal.”

“Good.” The grateful look that flashed across Cole’s face was heartening. He dutifully closed his eyes, Hank snatching a chair from the far corner to sit in as he waited. 

Kids had never been in the cards for Hank but as the anxious look on Cole’s features eased and he relaxed, giving into drowsiness, Hank thought he would have liked to have been a father. Maybe he’d been good at it.

Cole was asleep within five minutes, Hank standing up to make an exit. He went for the door and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw someone standing against the doorframe.

“Don’t fuc-freakin’ do that,” Hank whispered fiercely, Evan looking at him fondly in response. “What?”

Evan leaned forward and kissed him softly, shortly retreating. “Thank you for being so good with him,” he said as they walked towards the main bedroom. “He really does like you.”

Hank could feel heat flush his face, embarrassed that he’d been caught in a vulnerable moment. “Cole’s not much trouble compared to other kids I’ve met.”

“Did you just compliment my parenting skills there?” Evan asked, grinning at him. 

Waving a hand, Hank slipped back into bed, the covers still slightly warm. “Yeah, don’t get a big head about it or anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Rolling his eyes towards Evan as he touched Hank’s arm, one side of Hank’s mouth rose at the heat he found in Evan’s gaze. “It’s like three in the morning,” he muttered, nonetheless pulling Evan into the circle of his arms.

Evan stopped with his mouth less than an inch from Hank’s. “What can I say? Seeing your paternal side was sexy. Besides, it’s the weekend and we can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Hmm, point taken.” Hank supposed their time could be better spent on things other than sleep. 

* * *

**One Year Later**

Evan was standing before the sink, his hands deep in the soapy water that filled it, washing out a pan at the bottom. Standing next to him was Hank, a dishtowel at the ready to dry anything Evan handed him. Cole was in the living room, watching a strange cartoon, utterly absorbed in its goings-on.

“The coffee was literal sludge,” Hank said, relaying the sad state of the break room coffee at work. “How anyone could not remember to fill the carafe all the way I have no idea.”

Working hard at unseating a layer of dried lasagna from the large pan, Evan suddenly stopped, turning to look at Hank with an odd look in his eyes. Worried the small talk had bored him, Hank asked, “What?”

“Marry me.”

The breath caught in Hank’s throat at the abrupt question. “Huh?” How Evan could have gotten from washing a pan to proposing was beyond him.

Evan removed his hands from the sink, suds dripping from his fingers. He motioned for the towel in Hank’s grasp and he obliged feeling gobsmacked. “Standing here listening to you, I suddenly realized that if you’d been reading me the yellow pages, I’d still be enthralled.

“I mean, we’ve only been dating a little over a year, but I-” Evan touched Hank’s shoulder once his hands were dry. “I really can’t imagine not having you in my life. Is that crazy?”

His hooded gaze, the hesitant way he took a few of Hank’s fingers in his own… Hank couldn’t get over how utterly charming Evan was. He was everything Hank wasn’t. Friendly, charismatic, and patient to a fault.

If Even was crazy for proposing like that, then Hank was even crazier for the next words that came out of his mouth. “Yes.”

Evan narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’m crazy or yes, you’ll marry me?”

One side of his mouth rising, Hank bit off a laugh. “Both.”

“I should hit you for that.” Despite the issued threat, Evan came closer to Hank, hugging him. His breath was hot against Hank’s ear. “I’m just happy you accepted. I know it won’t be official per se but my parents are going to flip out when they hear about this.”

Hank had lost his own shortly after graduating college. As an only child, all he had left were distant relatives who lived halfway across the country. Somehow, he doubted they’d be interested in the news if they hadn’t bothered to stay in touch after attending his parents’ funeral beyond a few sporadic obligatory phone calls over the years.

Not that he blamed them. Hank had secured a good job and it wasn’t like he had needed anyone to hold his hand when he could hold his own in life quite well. In any case, Hank wasn’t about to trample all over Evan’s happiness by bringing up his own lack of close family members.

“So, wedding planning. You up for that?”

“Ugh,” Evan muttered as he stepped back from Hank. “I didn’t even think about that.”

The TV in the living room went silent, Cole wandering into the kitchen seconds later. He looked at their interlocked hands. “What’s going on?”

Leaving Hank’s side, Evan kneeled down in front of Cole. “Do you like having Hank around the house?”

Cole nodded. “Yeah, he has the best stories.” At Evan’s sharp look, Hank guiltily looked away. It wasn’t like he told any gory details about his job. The kid was only five years old after all.

Sure Evan would inquire about the matter later, Hank was relieved when he focused his attention back on his son. “So if I said he would be joining our family…”

“You’re staying?” Cole asked excitedly, racing up past Evan to grasp the leg of Hank’s jeans. “Forever?”

Hank smiled, leaning down to pat Cole on the head. “Yeah, I think so.”

“If I can get another dad, why not a dog?” Cole asked, starting back towards Evan who started laughing at the face Hank was pulling at the abrupt segue.

“You'd have to stop being allergic to them first,” Evan replied lightly. 

“Aw, man. No fair!”

* * *

**Nine Years Later**

**Winter of 2002**

“Sorry I can’t come with you,” Hank said, lingering near the front door as Evan and Cole pulled on their winter gear, a large suitcase sitting nearby. “If we weren’t short-staffed at work right now…”

“It’s okay. Really, I understand.”

Finished zipping up his coat, Evan leaned forward and kissed Hank, lingering longer than needed. Chuckling under his breath, Hank gently pushed at his shoulder, his eyes briefly going to Cole. Their son was focused on tying up the laces of his snow boots, oblivious to their PDA.

Evan’s slow smile as his eyes met Hank’s all but said he wished he didn’t have to leave quite so soon. A sentiment Hank shared but circumstances being what they were, there wasn’t much they could do about the matter.

“Don’t tempt me. If you don’t leave soon, you won’t make it to your parents’ place in time for the surprise party.”

“Auntie Astrid is getting old,” Cole said, pushing the heavy suitcase closer to the door with one foot.

Evan scoffed. “Cole, don’t be rude. 42 is not that old.” He shot Hank a look who quickly hid the grin he’d been sporting at Cole’s comment. “Anyway, I dare you to say that in front of her.”

Cole shook his head. “No thanks, I’m not stupid.”

“Then I guess I have raised you right,” Evan replied, reaching down to pick up the suitcase as Hank opened up the front door. “So I’ll call you once we get there. If I can’t manage it, I’ll have us back by Saturday evening.”

“Don’t hurry back on my account,” Hank said. “Not if you’re having a good time.”

Evan darted forward and hugged Hank tightly. “And that’s why I love you.” He stepped back. “Promise me you won’t work too hard.”

Holding up a hand, Hank solemnly swore, “I promise I will not.” He reached out and ruffled Cole’s hair, their son rolling his eyes at the gesture. “Have fun, pal.”

“’ Kay, Pops.” Even after nine years of being called such, Hank still got a warm fuzzy feeling from it.

“All right, we’re off,” Evan announced, starting down the snowy walkway. “Don’t have too much fun while we’re gone.”

Hank’s idea of a good time was reading and listening to music these days. “Never do. Now get out of here already, I won’t have your mom blaming me for you guys being late.”

“Okay, okay.” Giving in, the pair headed to the car. Cole waved as soon as he’d buckled himself into the passenger seat, Hank responding in kind while Evan loaded up the back of the pick-up with the suitcase. He got into the driver’s seat, honking the horn briefly as soon as the car had started up.

The vehicle slowly backed up down the driveway and was out of Hank’s sight in under a minute.

If only he’d known then that it would be the last time he would see his family alive. 

* * *

The doorbell was ringing shrilly, dragging Hank from the depths of deep sleep. Shaking off dreams of fire-breathing dragons and mechanical wind-up knights, he turned towards the nightstand next to the bed.

Hank sleepily mumbled, “For fuck’s sake.” Blearily, he noticed it was 4 AM, entirely too early for any houseguests. “This better be life or death.”

When the incessant noise continued with no sign of stopping, proving it wasn't some kid fooling around during a sadistic game of ding dong dash, Hank sat up in bed, a trickle of alarm rising in him. Surely Evan and Cole should have been home before now.

Sleep was promptly forgotten as Hank scrambled out of bed, dragging on any kind of clothes at hand. He proceeded down the stairs, hauling open the front door, convinced he’d find Cole and Evan standing on the doorstep full of reasons why they’d been so late.

Two police officers, one in uniform and the other in plain clothes, stood on the porch, their grave expressions all but telling Hank what they were here for. He really hoped he was wrong.

Hank recognized the pair. It was Detective Ashley Malone and her partner Constable Felix Stevens. Though he'd only consulted on a few cases with Malone at the Vancouver PD, he knew her well enough to realize her neutral expression was on purpose.

She had the same training he'd received and the script was always the same, only people's personalities determining how the rest of the scenario played out. Bar none, this was the worst part of a cop’s job.

“Let me have it,” Hank said with resignation, Malone looking pained for a moment before becoming the picture of professionalism once more.

“Mr. Hank Ashford?” Malone said, her calm authoritative voice unknowingly driving up Hank’s anxiety. She knew perfectly well who he was, but formality dictated he confirm his identity to properly start the proceedings.

“Yes.”

He could see Stevens, her partner, fight down a wave of emotion, Hank’s insides going cold, anticipating the worse.

“Is it all right if we come inside? You may wish to be seated for this,” Malone asked, Hank nodding mutely as he let the pair cross the threshold. He'd done a few visits of similar nature himself and it was never easy breaking the bad news.

Swallowing down the hard lump in his throat, Hank shook his head. “I’ll stand, thanks.” Even properly prepared for it, the next words he heard shattered the very fabric of his world.

Malone took a deep breath. “There has been an accident and we are sorry to inform you that Evan and Cole Campbell did not survive it.”

Hank silently listened as they detailed more of the situation without really paying much attention, focusing on them again when the pair mentioned a busy intersection not a half-hour away from the house, a truck, and black ice. They’d been so close to home.

The images playing within his mind were awful, part of Hank wishing he’d been there for the accident so he could see firsthand how it had all gone down.

“Is there anyone we can call for you, sir?”

Hank looked up, thinking he really couldn’t stand having someone else in the house wringing their hands over him. Asking if he was all right, was he hungry, and so on. “No,” he said firmly, barely any emotion in his tone of voice. “I’m fine.”

He was doing his best to keep it together, refusing to break down in front of fellow coworkers.

While Malone and Stevens didn’t seem pleased with Hank’s answer, they didn’t push the issue. He couldn’t have cared less for their discomfort as he cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be alone now.”

“Very well. We’ll be in touch as the investigation progresses.” Hank led the pair to the front door pointedly, the expressions of pity and sympathy on their faces almost more than he could stand.

Malone touched his shoulder briefly. “I’m really sorry, Hank.”

He shook her hand off, seized by a flash of anger, tension beginning to creep into Hank’s body language. “Yeah, thanks.”

She winced ever so slightly, Malone likely realizing she'd gone too far and turned away, her partner speaking to her softly as they proceeded down the walkway to the police car parked near the curb.

Thankful they’d sent officers that were little more than acquaintances, Hank didn’t have to worry about hurting their feelings. He had enough on his plate as is. 

As soon as they had driven away and he closed the front door, Hank forgot the hour of the day, that he’d been awakened in the middle of the night. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. If he was honest with himself, Hank was afraid of letting the newfound knowledge in his brain infect his subconscious. Seeing who knew how many variations of his family’s end.

At least if he was awake, Hank could redirect his mind to other matters. Like when exactly he should call Evan’s parents. Down in Spokane, Washington, it was the same time. They’d still be in bed.

From their perspective, Cole and Evan would have arrived home safely hours ago. Except they hadn’t.

His throat threatening to close, Hank shook his head, fending off the emotional wave. No, he couldn’t think about that. The longer he left the issue, the worse it would be. The sooner they knew, the better, though Hank hated being the bearer of such terrible news.

The number for Steven and Polly had been stored in his phone for years, Hank hesitating before he hit the send button. His life had forever changed and by spreading the news, so would theirs. Nevertheless, it couldn’t be avoided.

It rang a number of times, almost going to the answering machine. A sleepy male voice picked up. “Hello?”

“Mr. Campbell?”

A beat went by. “Hank? It’s after four in the morning.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shit, he couldn’t do this. No, he had to. “Listen, there’s been an accident.”

“Polly, get up.” Steven’s voice had gone hard, the sudden background noise telling Hank he’d been put on speakerphone. “Hank, is everyone okay?”

“What’s going on, honey?”

This would wreck them. Hank swallowed the lump in his throat. “Evan and Cole, they’re gone. Some trucker and black ice.”

He wouldn’t be able to run the investigation himself. However, he knew enough people in the traffic department that he could probably get a copy of the accident report if he asked.

“Gone?” Steven’s voice had gone quiet. “Do you mean dea-“

“Yes.” Hank could hear the immense pain contained in the single word.

The sound of Polly’s sudden fast breathing wasn’t surprising, but Steven’s near whimper was like a jolt to Hank’s system. As long as he’d known Evan’s father, Steven had been a taciturn man who held his emotions close to his chest. Hell, it’d taken two years for him to warm up to Hank after he’d joined the family.

Now, the man’s sobbing was so real, so close to home that Hank couldn’t take it. If he had to listen to one more second, his own grief might rise and swallow him whole.

“I’ll…call back once I have more information. I’m so sorry.” Like a coward, Hank hung up. He squeezed the phone in his hand until it hurt, then let it drop on the couch next to him.

There were other things he had to do come morning: take bereavement leave from the station, call Evan’s own work, notify their friends…Hank’s friends now. Evan’s parents, his sister, they’d probably fly down for the funeral, right? He hoped they stayed somewhere other than the house, Hank doubting he’d be feeling very hospitable in the coming days.

He’d worked overtime at work, gotten to bed around 12:30 in the morning, and now the lack of sufficient sleep was beginning to drag at him. Grief too was taking its toll. But he didn’t want to dream and had to find a way to knock himself right out.

A memory of Evan sitting at the dinner table with a bottle of malt scotch rose to Hank’s, sipping away at a half-filled tumbler glass while watching him and Cole cook pancakes together at the stove. Evan had opened the bottle last month, surely there had to be some left. Having only really been a social drinker throughout his life and beer at that most of the time, Hank knew drinking enough of the strong liquor would more than do the job.

Navigating easily to the kitchen and opening the top cabinet to the right, Hank closed a hand around the scotch bottle and pulled it out. Evan had had a sophisticated palate, always pairing drinks to food when he could, even in the most casual of settings.

Hank undid the cap and drank straight from the bottle, the malty bite burning down his throat. He managed to swallow it down before coughing madly, his eyes pricking with wetness at the liquor’s strength. How the hell had Evan sipped such a drink so casually? A man of mystery to the end, his husband.

A warmth started in his chest, quickly spreading to his limbs, Hank relishing the feeling. It was better than the cold that had seeped into his veins when he had heard the bad news. Another long drag made the world fuzzy around the edges, Hank making his way back to the couch.

He couldn’t face going to the main bedroom and feeling the empty side of a bed that was never going to be claimed again. Not yet.

As far as a sleep aid went, scotch was immensely effective, taking Hank down within ten minutes. He was never so happy to embrace oblivion as he did then, almost wishing it could have been final.

* * *

At first, he followed a routine. Eat, sleep, and live as if the world around him hadn’t irrevocably changed. Hank knew he was avoiding the issue but couldn’t stop himself, too afraid if he stopped it all would come crashing down on him. 

Then Evan’s family arrived in town, Hank glad to step back and let them take care of the funeral arrangements. All he did was give out the necessary phone numbers. As if sensing his precarious state, they didn’t overstay their welcome and took up accommodations at a hotel until the day of the funeral came. 

The whole thing passed in a bit of a blur. As far as Hank was concerned, Cole and Evan’s spirits were long gone, what laid beneath the coffins only their remains, meat for carrion. It was all a meaningless ritual, solely designed to provide comfort to those left behind.

Hank didn’t know about anyone else amongst his company, but it did nothing for him. Once the proceedings were over, he mutely accepted condolence after condolence, countless offers of any assistance people could provide should Hank need it falling on deaf ears.

Eventually, there was no one left and he was alone once again.

**One Week Later…**

It was past midnight and Hank couldn’t sleep. A common occurrence these days. The bed felt empty and cold, the house far too quiet. Giving up on the idea of rest entirely, Hank slipped out of the bed and walked down the stairs into the family room, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the dark.

He surveyed the wall of framed photos on one side of the room, Evan being something of an amateur photographer who insisted on capturing what he’d called the important moments.

Cole graduating preschool, Evan and his wife Sarah's first anniversary, Hank and Evan standing outside the church after their wedding, and so forth. Despite being the photographer for many of the photos, Evan was in a lot of them. Likely when his subjects stole the camera away from him in outright exasperation.

Hank's gaze caught on a photo of Evan sitting at the breakfast table in a shirt and boxers, a young Cole balanced on one of his knees as he ate breakfast.

_“The toast is burnt,” Evan said, eyeing the plate of food with trepidation. He was usually the one cooking but Hank had woken up earlier for once._

_Leaning against the edge of the counter, having refilled his coffee cup, Hank shook his head. “It's crispy just the way it should be.”_

_“Hank, it's black and no amount of scraping is going to make it edible.”_

_As if in defiance, Cole grabbed a slice off the plate and stuck one end of it into his mouth, struggling to bite down. He finally managed it, the dry crunchiness of the bread loud as he chewed._

_“I like it,” Cole announced, taking another bite. “Food should fight back.”_

_Hank smiled at that, Evan rolling his eyes in response. “Okay, I can see I'm outnumbered here. Color me the weird one in the family.”_

“You really are,” Hank found himself saying out loud, dragging his eyes from the photo as they filled with tears. It'd been a week since the funeral and he still couldn’t convince himself believe they were gone.

He expected to see them in the kitchen, Evan whipping up dinner or Cole playing with a video game on the TV, lost in a virtual world of someone else’s making. They'd left Hank behind instead, journeying to another plane of existence altogether.

Every item he touched, every place within the walls of the house, triggered memory after memory, each one searing Hank’s pain and grief deeper and deeper into his being.

Before their deaths, he had only been a social drinker. Now it took 1/4 of a bottle of whiskey each night to dull his mind up enough to go to sleep. Even then, Hank was at the mercy of his nightmares, which unfortunately there was no way to stop.

It was a living hell.

As soon as his bereavement leave was over, Hank poured himself into his work, operating with a drive some would have said was obsessive, but Hank called efficient. If he couldn’t solve his own problems, Hank could damn well solve those belonging to others.

He did his best to function normally, as normally as someone who’d lost everything dear to him could, not willing to lost his job on top of it all.

It was the one thing in his life he had control over, that gave order and function to his life. A reason to keep track of which day was which and stick to a routine of seeming normalcy.

When he could close cases and bring perpetrators to justice, it gave him hope that maybe he could get it for himself until inevitably Hank would have a bad day and he lost even that perk. It was a rather vicious cycle if he was honest.

Feeling brave during one afternoon on the weekend, Hank approached the room he hadn’t the heart to enter since the accident. He’d slept in the main bedroom out of habit alone, yet the door to Cole’s room remained closed. Not that the method worked well for Hank. The longer he put it off, the worse the prospect it would become over time.

Taking a deep breath, Hank turned the doorknob and stepped over the threshold. The sight of the rumpled covers on the bed and unfinished schoolwork on the top of the desk to the far right was enough to make Hank instantly regret his decision, pain tightening like a band across his chest.

Had it not been because of one stupid patch of black ice, Cole would still be here, laughing and smiling along with his dad. It wasn’t fair.

He squeezed the flattened cardboard boxes under his arm and fingers tighter and shook his head, Hank drawing on his stubborn nature to lean down and put them together. Much as he wished things were different, letting Cole’s things sit and gather dust was more than Hank could stand. They could be put to better use somewhere else well out of his view where they couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Trying to work as fast as possible, Hank filled one box half full of books, the familiar mystery titles bringing to mind Cole’s love of reading as he grew up, always determined to figure things out before the main characters did.

_“I’d love to introduce him to Sherlock Holmes,” Hank said as he got into bed, Evan turning his way with a smile._

_“I think you’ve got a few years to go before Cole is able to appreciate the finer points of Arthur Conan Doyle’s writing, Hank. He’s only eight after all.”_

_Laying back onto his pillow, Hank gave the matter a moment of thought. “So another three years?”_

_Evan bit off a chuckle, shifting close enough to lay down against Hank's shoulder. “If you can stand us for that long, sure.”_

_“Hmm, might have to rethink that plan then,” Hank joked, starting when Evan pinched his side. “Okay, fine, it'll be a pleasure to wait it out.”_

_“Better be,” Evan replied. “Because I’m not letting you get away.”_

Coming back to himself, Hank wondered why he bothered at all. His reason for living was gone. Work had proved it alone couldn’t keep him going, even at the best of times. Victories there felt hollow and temporary like everything else these days.

It didn't matter where he went or what he did. Evan and Cole’s ghosts followed Hank everywhere, reminding him of what he'd had and lost. 

Letting the books in his hands fall haphazardly to the floor, Hank took a seat on Cole’s bed. If everything was meaningless and their absence was the issue, then the solution was simple.

He just had to join them. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? 

For the first time since he’d learned of the accident, Hank smiled.

* * *

**The Following Night**

He stared at the photo propped in front of him, a glass of liquor held in his hand. Hank had forgotten how much he'd drank that evening. He only knew that it wasn't enough to dull the pain of the hole inside him.

His gun sat on the table next to the photo and for once Hank didn’t merely see it as a daily requirement for his job. The promise within its metal barrels was vast. It could transport him beyond this place, his body, and the world itself.

One pull of the trigger was all it would take to bring him eternal peace.

His hands shaking, Hank reached for the gun and confirmed it was loaded. Despite his resolve to proceed, a tiny part of him was screaming that suicide was wrong, that he should call someone and get some help. But Hank didn’t want that, couldn’t stand living another useless day that would bring him nothing but grief.

Life had become a farce and Hank felt like he was just playing a part, moving through the cogs of the machine at the heart of the world. What was the point of it all if there was no joy left to him?

Death and life were indistinguishable at this point, and if he was already a ghost, why not make it official? He’d been here long enough already.

Taking another long drag of whiskey with his free hand, Hank slammed the glass down onto the table. He stood up, gripping the gun in his hand tight. Raising it to the right side of his temple, he shivered at the feel of the cold metal barrel against his skin.

His finger gripped the trigger, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Drawing on his resolution to end it and vast amounts of liquid courage, Hank took a deep breath.

“Hang on, guys,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

He squeezed the trigger, heard the hammer strike home, and darkness swallowed everything.

His face and neck were chilly, raising goosebumps on Hank’s skin as he opened his eyes. Sunlight and a familiar ceiling greeted him, Hank slow to sit up.

Once he had managed that, Hank brushed at his forehead and stared at the thick red substance on his fingers. His ears were ringing, a feeling of disorientation gripping him, knowing something was off. Hank hadn’t passed out on the floor again, had he?

With a growing sense of dread, Hank scrambled to his feet, the halo of blood and other viscera where he'd been previously laying bright in the sunlight that streamed in from the kitchen window.

Something cold and metal fell down his back, making Hank turn to look down as the object settled on the floor. The bloody spent bullet a testament to the fact that he had indeed shot himself in the head. It all added up- his bleeding head, the silver revolver that laid under the kitchen table, and Hank’s hearing that was coming back in increments.

Having to turn away from the messy area, Hank used the ends of his shirt to frantically wipe away the blood from his head and neck. There were heavier bits in his hair that he had the disturbing feeling were shards of bone and bits of brain matter.

Searching for the hole that had to surely be there, Hank’s fingertips met nothing but solid flesh, his skull seemingly unscathed. The world wavered around the edges, Hank sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs until the dizzy spell passed.

This was ridiculous. People didn't just come back to life after blowing their brains out. What, was he supposed to be some kind of zombie or vampire? This was reality, not some cheap fantasy novel.

“Mr. Ashford?”

He stirred from his reverie, recognizing the young voice as the teenager from next door. Without waiting for a reply, Jeffrey pushed through the unlocked front door, a plastic bag in his hand, no doubt some kind of food item his mom had sent along for Hank.

Jeffrey’s eyes went wide, stilling halfway into the family room, shock and fear etching itself across his dark features. 

Remembering the grisly scene surrounding him, his clothes stained with red, Hank shot to his feet. He glanced at the mess, grimacing at the sight of his revolver lying there, its part in his recent activity inducing a shudder down Hank's spine.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, grabbing the weapon and shortly putting it back where it belonged in the gun safe beneath his kitchen sink. Hank looked back to Jeffrey at a loss for how to explain the situation when he couldn’t himself.

“Are you a superhero?” Jeffrey suddenly asked, his eyes going bright with excitement. All previous signs of fear were gone. “To have bullets bounce off you?”

Of all the things Jeffrey could have said, Hank would have never predicted that. Never mind that the teenager was wrong. Whatever had happened, his body had rejected the damage and healed instead, leaving Hank here despite having gotten his courage up to finally end things.

“Sure,” Hank replied casually. “Yeah, that's what I am.” He knelt down in front of Jeffrey and took the plastic bag from him, laying it aside on the floor.

Jeffrey looked at him with such amazement and happiness that Hank felt bad he couldn’t be what Jeffrey wanted. “Do you have any other powers?”

“Listen, Jeffrey,” Hank interrupted gently. “You have to promise me that you won't tell anyone else about this, okay?” He scoured his memory for a frame of reference, having read a few comics in his day. But Cole had had a large collection of graphic novels, most of his superhero ones having a common theme. “Lives could be lost if anyone knew my secret identity.”

Jeffrey nodded solemnly. “I swear your secret is safe with me.”

Hank forced a smile, amazed at Jeffrey’s resolve and gullibility. “Okay, great.” He stood up, then placed a hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder as he walked him back to the front door. “Better get back to your parents before they start to worry. Thank your mom for the food for me.”

As soon as Jeffrey was gone, closing the door behind him, Hank collapsed to the floor, the start of tears in his eyes. “What the fuck is going on?”

He’d committed suicide, yet Hank was still breathing, no sign of obvious trauma on his person, not even one damn scratch. His body had stopped functioning, he was sure of that, but Hank remembered nothing from his quick trip to oblivion.

Brow furrowing, Hank headed for the bathroom, determination in his steps. He had to know, make sure he wasn’t dreaming all this, his subconscious being incredibly cruel to him.

The razors blades were in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, Hank carefully taking the pack of replacements out to sit on the edge of the sink. Even during the darkest moods in his youth, self-harm had never held any appeal. Of course Hank had never been this depressed before.

Shit, he was trying to delay, wasn’t he? Enough of that.

Taking one of the replacements blades out, holding the edge of it between his fingers, Hank put the razor against the underside of his arm. He’d chosen a gun because it was quick. Slitting your own wrists was anything but. It was slow and painful and no matter how terrible Hank felt inside, he hadn’t wanted to go that route.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, looking away as he drove the razor blade deep into his skin, groaning at the sharp burning pain that immediately seized his nerves. Hank instinctively dropped the razor blade into the sink, blood sprouting out from the long vertical cut.

Hissing through his teeth, his breath going off-kilter, Hank used his other hand to press against the worst of the wound, beginning to regret his impulsive course of action. There were easier, less messy ways to go, weren’t there?

Too late now though.

He sat down on the floor, the amount of blood pumping out from his body amazing. Feeling sick and lightheaded, Hank started to put his head back against the wall when his arm went numb, the pain abruptly gone. Oh, well, that wasn’t too bad.

Then normality went out the window when the wound pulsed, Hank’s fingers twitching involuntarily. He stared in disbelief as the bleeding stopped, the edges of the wound slowly knitting together, damaged nerves, muscles, and tendons growing back.

In no time at all, Hank’s arm was healed as if he’d never done anything.

His mind blown, he felt along the skin of his arm, marveling at how quick it had been. He’d spent maybe three minutes bleeding before the wound had regenerated, some kind of internal alarm going off inside his body.

“This is insane.” He had no idea what was going on. Was he impervious to any kind of harm now? That made his plan to join his family beyond the grave harder than he’d anticipated.

Hanging his head, the thought of any kind of clean-up far from his mind, Hank’s breath lost its steady rhythm, his chest constricting tightly as he broke down at the utter hopelessness of it all.

“Goddamn it…this isn’t fair.” 

* * *

It was two weeks later when he was stepping out of the precinct through the parking garage that he felt a sudden pressure rise in his head that seemed to disappear as quickly as it appeared.

Thinking it was probably fallout from eating a bullet, Hank shook it off, digging out his car keys from his pocket. He froze when a female voice called out behind him, soft but loud enough that it echoed in the garage.

“I finally found you.”

Hank glanced over his shoulder, taking in the lanky red-haired woman who was dressed in a dark business suit. Her green eyes settled on him with a degree of scrutiny he felt was undeserved.

“I'm sorry?” Hank replied. “Do I know you?”

She shook her head. “No, you don't. However, I need to speak with you on a private matter.”

“Why?”

Her gaze turned chilly as she approached him, stopping at his car. “Because I can provide you with answers like why you're drawing breath despite a successful suicide attempt.”

Hank's mouth went dry, shocked a stranger he'd never seen in his life knew what he'd done. His grip tightened on the keys in his hand before he motioned to his car silently.

The woman smiled enigmatically as she slipped into the passenger seat once Hank had unlocked it.

Did he want to take her to his house? Not really, but Hank didn't want his private affairs discussed in public either. Getting into the driver's seat, Hank did his seatbelt and turned the car on.

“I'm Simone,” she announced abruptly, holding out a hand over the gear shift. 

Not sure if he’d done the right thing by letting him into his life, however little, Hank clasped her hand gently. “Hank.”

“Nice to meet you.”

They'd barely stepped inside the house when Hank dumped his car keys and jacket, spinning to confront Simone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Crude but I'm going to allowed it due to the situation.” Simone met his eyes straight on. “You surpassed humanity when you committed suicide two weeks ago. Now no matter what you do, unless someone takes your head, you'll never age or die.”

“Bullshit.” It was bad enough he'd failed twice in his bid to die, now Simone was telling him nothing short of decapitation would take? “That's impossible.”

She chuckled. “About as impossible as cleaning your own brains off the floor and cabinets?”

Hank tightened his fist, trying hard to keep a hold on his temper. “How do you know that?”

Smiling, Simone took a seat on the couch, forcing Hank to sit down as well across from her.

He stared at Simone expectedly, willing to wait her out until she delivered on the answers she had promised him in the parking garage.

She let out a long sigh, crossing her legs. “Our kind can sense each other,” she explained. “Me more than most. I happened to be in the neighborhood when I, for lack or a better word, sensed your life force spike before it diminished. It was a simple matter of following that fading signal to its source here in this house.”

“You knew I would come back?”

Simone nodded. “Some take hours and others days. I waited a while to contact you just to be sure you would be open to what I had to say.”

Hank's breath shuddered, trying to take everything in and not freak out. “I can't die?”

“No,” Simone said. “Not unless I or another Immortal takes your head from your body.”

His whole plan of joining Evan and Cole six feet under had fallen to pieces in the most unexpected way. “Why would anyone be interested in doing that?”

Simone’s gaze went straight to him, her expression grave. “Because of the Game.”

“Game?” He'd never be much for such things, finding many of the rules tedious. Why put restrictions on fun?

“It's something that’s been around as long as our kind,” she said with all the inflection of someone who had explained it a hundred times before. “Competing for a Prize, though no one knows exactly what it is. Some are desperate for it and others, like me, merely want to live on in peace.”

Hank shook his head, getting to his feet to pace. “I only wanted to die. How has everything gotten so complicated?”

In the space of one blink, Simone moved, a sudden chilliness against the front of Hank's throat, the bite of the short blade she held in her hand drawing a light scratch on his skin.

Where the hell had she been hiding that?

Her eyes were afire, Hank almost certain he could see how far Simone had come in life to be here now standing in his living room, the restraint and strength in her body a marvel to see.

Afraid to shallow, Hank stared at Simone, resigned to his fate. If this was how he rejoined his family, he was fine with her ending him. “Do it.”

Her brow narrowed, the sharp blade stinging as it leaned forward, then Simone lowered the short sword to her side.

“No, Hank.”

Anger flared in him. “For god sake's, why?”

“Because for whatever reason, you've been given the greatest gift possible in life: a second chance. You should embrace it, not wallow in what you cannot change.”

He growled. “I didn't want it!” He hadn't meant to yell, but the frustration and confusion during the last two weeks exploded inside him.

“Too bad,” she quipped, tucking her short sword somewhere near her back. Now that Hank looked closer, he could see a short sheath along the top of her spine. “There's no taking it back.”

Hank threw himself back into his seat, holding his head in his hands. At 43 years old, he'd thought he accumulated enough knowledge about the world to get by only to have everything yanked out from under him by a shady supernatural force.

Studying Simone’s tense body language, drawing on years of job experience having to coerce confessions out of all manner of people, Hank said, “You’re holding something back, aren’t you?”

Her eyes ticked to him with a knowing look. She licked her bottom lip, subconsciously telling Hank he was right on the money in his suspicions. “Just spill, things can’t get much worse, can they?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, finally saying, “You’ll never age another day in your now very extended lifespan and…”

Hank was still processing the fact he’d outlive his family and friends when it dawned on him Simone hadn’t finished her sentence. “What?”

“Immortals can’t have children.”

Shit, he’d been wrong about the situation not getting much worse. So wrong.

“As if this world couldn’t take anything else from me,” Hank said mostly to himself, stunned that it was the infertility part out of everything he was having an issue with. After Cole’s death, he thought he was done with children altogether. Being told they hadn’t been attainable all along, ironically Hank realized he wasn’t. Not at all.

He felt like his existence had become some kind of cosmic joke.

“Fuck.”

Simone ignored Hank's heartfelt curse and knelt down in front of him, waiting until he looked into her earnest face. “I'd like to train you, give you at least somewhat of a fighting chance if another Immortal should pop up in the future. We're rare, but we're out there.”

He scoffed, already tired and the day wasn’t over yet. “Why bother? I won't fight, they can have my head if they want it so badly.”

Her expression was full of understanding and an edge of hope. “You say that now, Hank, but after a few decades, that suicidal streak of yours might fade and you'll be glad you're still around.”

Hank had never been a cheery person and Simone’s positive attitude was grating on his nerves. “I doubt it.”

“Everything changes whether you want it to or not,” Simone said with a touch of sadness in her voice. “Best get used to that.”

“The voice of experience talking there?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, taking in the pain he glimpsed within Simone's eyes. The march of endless time haunting her.

“Five centuries of it, yeah.”

Outwardly, Simone appeared to be a healthy robust 25-year-old. It was unreal so much life experience could fit into such a deceiving package. It also made Hank very curious. “Tell me, Simone, the people you've lost in this immortal life of yours, do you still mourn them?”

“Of course,” Simone replied. “It's not like we stop being human because our lives are longer. Those we meet and grow close to are our touchstones.”

The words sank home and despite wanting to be able to tell Simone off and get on with the life he had left to him, Hank’s throat tightened and he looked to the ground, tears springing into his eyes. He’d been hoping Simone would say in time Hank would forget and move on, but nothing was ever that easy, was it?

A hand touched his forehead, her fingers warming on his skin, Simone remaining silent until Hank had managed to pull himself together.

When he looked back up, Simone retrieved a tissue from the box on the table nearby and handed it to him. “This training,” Hank said after making use of it, crushing it in a ball in his fist. “When and where?”

“As soon as possible if you can manage it.”

Sniffing to clear up the last of the snot that threatened to come out, Hank looked to her. “I’m not leaving my job,” he said firmly, knowing that if he did Hank would quickly go insane. He needed to work at something that yielded results and sitting around all day didn’t work for him.

Simone rubbed at her chin, lost in thought. “It was so much easier when people could disappear at the drop of a hat. So many rules and regulations to follow nowadays.” She sighed. “Well, if you refuse to leave Vancouver, I guess I’ll have to stay here.”

“What?”

Simone shot him a dubious look. “I’m not leaving you without knowing you can adequately protect yourself. I also really don’t trust you not to decapitate yourself the instant I walk out the front door.”

Narrowing his eyes, Hank stood up, not sure exactly how he would manage that. “You see anything around here that could accomplish that besides your short sword?”

“You never know,” Simone replied. “Humans are endlessly inventive.”

He walked into the kitchen, going to the fridge to retrieve a beer, wondering if Simone was aware she’d counted herself as something other than human. Was Hank a completely different race now? That was one among many questions he had.

He downed half the can in one go, the cold drink what he needed to destress. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, Hank walked back to Simone. “How long is this training going to take?”

“That depends entirely on you, Hank. Some Immortals are crap with a weapon no matter what and others have a hidden gift for it. I admit I am intrigued where you’ll fall in the spectrum."

Hank snorted. “Me too.”

The answer, as it turned out, was two years. 48 months of coming home to Simone after putting in a hard day’s work and sweating his ass off as he went through drills, techniques, and basic tactics. There was sparring, and to his immense annoyance, meditation.

His coworkers swore Hank must have some fine piece of ass on the side running him ragged but they couldn’t have been more wrong. As much as Hank had grown to know and respect Simone as a person, romance was not a possibility.

He was too heartbroken to contemplate the possibility of another relationship and she seemed to have no interest in sex of any kind. Even the past conquests she mentioned were flippant statements with no emotions attached. Maybe she’d evolved beyond physical needs. 

One day, in the middle of eating dinner, Hank asked bluntly, “I’m going to have to leave, aren’t I?”

Simone looked towards him in response, a certain coldness in her face he only glimpsed when they discussed Immortal matters. Considering how many questions Hank had, it was a fairly common occurrence.

“Yes, you have maybe ten years left until those around you will surely notice that you aren’t aging. Consider yourself lucky that no one else saw you die or revive, otherwise you’d be risking much more.”

Hank kept his mouth shut about Jeffrey, not liking Simone’s tone. “What do you mean?”

“There’s an organization that would prefer to remain anonymous who keep track of our kind. Some of their members can be overzealous and would take anyone knowing about us and the Game as a threat. So if you have to tell someone your secret, be sure you can trust them because you’re potentially putting their life at risk whether by another Immortal’s hand or a shadowy Watcher.”

“You know, sometimes I regret asking you anything because I feel like I’m plunging deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole, learning how fucked I really am.”

“’Curiouser and curiouser,’” Simone quoted, Hank leveling a stare at her in return. Unperturbed, she continued. “Seriously, Hank, ten years is a long time to bid your old life adieu. You don’t even have to pretend to die, merely break contact, and move to another country under another name. Even if you run into someone you know years later, pretending to be your own progeny or a distant family relative is but a simple matter.”

It was a cold calculating strategy that spoke of years of prior experience covering herself, which was probably how Simone had survived so long.

“Good to know,” Hank replied, hoping he’d pick a location so he wouldn’t have to play the fool in front of former family and friends. He didn’t know if he could be that cold-hearted. 

One thing Hank could give Simone, she was one hell of a teacher.

Everything she’d pounded into him finally paid off during one late-night session where Hank actually laid the edge of his practice blade against her throat. He’d done it unconsciously, so in the moment that he didn’t realize what he’d done, the feat he managed to accomplish slow to draw on Hank.

Simone’s triumphant smile was brilliant, rolling out from under Hank’s weapon. She quickly got to her feet again. “I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks, huh?” She pounded him on the shoulder. “I’d been hoping this day would come.”

Out of breath and thrilled at his success, Hank straightened up. “Doubted it would happen, huh?”

“You are a slow learner, Hank,” Simone said lightly with a quick wink. Despite being sweaty and no doubt as tired as him, Simone held up a hand. “I’ll be right back.”

She headed to the bedroom she had taken as her own on the first floor, returning with a large carrying case at her side.

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Beware Immortals bearing gifts?”

“Come now,” Simone chided. “I’m not that bad.” She moved further into the house, past the sparring area, and placed the case on the kitchen table. “It’s tradition to give your acolyte this once they reach a milestone so take it in the spirit it’s given, all right?”

Stepping forward next to Simone, Hank reached out and opened the case. Inside was a finely crafted steel sword, shining in the overhead light. It was beautiful but…he lowered the lid with a sigh.

“It may be tradition,” Hank said. “But if said acolyte isn’t going to need it once you’re gone, what use is it?”

Simone frowned. “You’re still set on ending your life after everything I’ve taught you?”

“I know you won’t do it for me,” Hank replied, halfway wishing she’d been one of the big bad Immortals he’d heard so much about these last two years. “So I know better than to even ask.”

“You stupid bastard,” Simone said sadly. “If that’s how you feel about the matter, then I’ll cut my losses here and leave you to your fate.” She motioned to the sword on the table. “But please keep that for my sake and use it if you decide you want to live after all.”

Hank stayed silent, refusing to make any promises he couldn’t keep.

True to her word, Simone reappeared from the confines of her room with her things gathered in a small rolling suitcase, her hair wet and tied back in a braid. She regarded Hank quietly as she neared the front door before hugging him close. “You weren’t the worst student I’ve ever had.”

“Gee, thanks,” Hank replied as she stepped back from him.

“Eventually, when you’re forced to cut ties here, you’ll need new papers and whatnot. I’ve left you the contact information of people who can provide assistance in the matter.”

Simone looked over the house one last time, her gaze landing on Hank again with resignation. “I hope you find someone who turns out to be worth fighting for,” she said. “And I rather hope we meet again someday.”

“Thank you for everything,” Hank announced, stunned at how much he found he would miss Simone once she was gone. Though she had only been in his life for two years, Simone had left a lasting impression.

She smiled. “Good luck, Hank.” Simone turned to the front door and without another word walked through it, never looking back once.

Hank lingered at the door as she drove off, her car disappearing down the street into the darkness.

"Yeah, I have a feeling I'll need it." 

* * *

The house was nearly empty, everything either sold to friends and neighbors or packed away into the trunk of his car. Hank had only kept what he couldn’t stand to part with, most of them being photos. They were tucked into one large photo album that Hank doubted he had the heart to view for a long time. Perhaps never.

The one belonging he hadn’t packed was a large map of the United States, which lay unfolded on the floor. As he gazed at the colorful shapes denoted on the map, Hank stepped back and closed his eyes.

He threw a single paperclip in the air. After a few seconds had gone by, he opened them, looking to see on which state the paperclip had landed. The mitten-shaped state was divided into two parts, most of the clip resting on the lower peninsula.

“All right,” Hank said to himself as he turned away from the map, leaving it where it laid and heading for the front door. “Michigan it is.”

He supposed it would do for his new home.

_**To Be Concluded...** _


	2. Motor City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sumo and Connor.

_Chapter Two: Motor City_

**Detroit, MI**

**2015**

The precinct was chaos as Hank had expected for such a metropolitan area. If it wasn't a minor crime, someone had shot another person for the stupidest reason, believing it to be the best solution to their problem.

He'd only transferred in for a few days when upon checking his messages he saw a request from Captain Fowler to meet him in his office ASAP.

Wary, his gut telling him that he was either going to be reprimanded for messing up somewhere or asked to fill in the captain on the cases they’d been working on, Hank stood up and headed towards the large office.

He knocked, a rough male voice inviting him in. Obliging, Hank stepped through, the built dark-skinned man bent over his desk, signing a document of some kind. He looked rather young for his position but perhaps he’d accomplished much in his career or had friends in high places.

“I apologize for not formally greeting you before this, Mr. Anderson. It's been a very busy time lately.”

Hank nodded. He'd barely had much chance to catch his breath either, his old job at the VPD not much different than what he currently had at DPD. “It's fine, I didn't expect to have the welcome wagon rolled out for me.”

Captain Fowler suddenly paused, slowly looking up, his eyes going wide as they settled on Hank's face. He paled, sitting down in his chair hard, the squeak of its inner springs loud.

It was like he'd seen a ghost.

Hank glanced down at the nameplate on the desk. Jeffrey Fowler. The breath caught in his throat. The same one who used to live next door to him in Canada. His family had moved a few years after Hank had lost everything, dropping entirely off his radar.

“Holy shit,” Jeffrey said, openly staring at Hank. “You can't be here.”

Despite the strained situation, Hank couldn't help chuckling. “Yeah, I tell myself that every day.” The sad thing was he was entirely serious.

Jeffrey came out from behind the desk, watching Hank warily, though there was a deep curiosity in his features. He reached out and poked Hank's shoulder, confirming he was indeed flesh and blood.

“You know, for a while, I thought I dreamed you. That my vivid imagination had turned an ordinary neighbor into a superhero,” Jeffrey said wistfully. “But even I couldn't make up the realistic details of someone surviving a shot to the head.”

Hank sighed. That had been a long time ago. “I worried I'd traumatized you, you know. It was a shock to me too.”

Leaning forward, Jeffrey furrowed his brow. “You have to tell me. I'll go mad otherwise.”

Hank bit his lower lip. He'd been informed repeatedly by Simone that other people were not to know about Immortals, that there was an organization out there who took active steps to keep things under wraps. But it wasn't like Jeffrey was a civilian, and Hank doubted he would spread the information around for fear of being called crazy himself.

“Okay,” Hank conceded, doing a quick examination of Jeffrey's hand. A wedding band was present. “Let's have supper at my house and I'll explain everything.”

“But when there are only two of you guys left, what's the Prize?”

Hank tipped his beer bottle back, finishing it before he answered Jeffrey's question. “I've got to leave some mystery there, don't I?” 

Jeffrey studied him, the last of the mashed potatoes on his plate forgotten. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Not a fucking clue,” Hank admitted with a smirk.

They laughed, Hank beginning to remember why he hadn’t minded Jeffrey hanging with Cole back then. He was blunt and serious to a fault but had a wicked sense of humor.

When the moment had passed, Jeffrey regarded Hank seriously, leaning forward over the kitchen table. “What's it like?”

“What?” Hank asked, choosing to play dumb, half his dinner unfinished, the conversation topic not ideal for keeping his appetite intact.

“Dying and coming back, of course,” Jeffrey replied, not even attempting to ignore the elephant in the room. “What else would I be talking about?”

Wishing he had another beer to stave off the sudden grave turn things had taken, Hank put some thought into it. “It might be different for other people but in my experience, it’s a deep dark ocean, everything static and frozen. It’s cold and dark, but at the same time there's a comfort in it.

“The knowledge that your journey is simply done and you can put everything aside and finally rest,” Hank said quietly, wondering if Jeffrey could hear the wistful tone in his voice, how desperate he was to get back to that place and _stay_ there for once.

“And then your heart starts again and you're poured piece by painful piece back into a broken body that takes time to heal up,” Hank finished. He stood up, beginning to gather the plates and silverware from the table. “It's unpleasant to say the least.”

Jeffrey just watched him for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “Damn.” He’d somehow managed to encapsulate most of Hank's feelings on the topic well.

“That's a word for it,” Hank shot back. “Better than miracle anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jeffrey. “Grab the empties and toss them into the recycle bin, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jeffrey trailed on his heels, the short clinking of glass signaling he'd managed to locate the recycling bin all right. “Hey, Hank?”

Hank dumped the dishes into the sink. “Hmm?”

“I've got tickets to the Tigers game on Saturday. You want to go with me?”

“Not taking your wife?” Hank asked, running hot water in the sink, the detergent he’d poured into it foaming up on the surface while it slowly filled.

Jeffrey came closer, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter next to Hank. “Nah, sports aren’t her thing. She'd rather read.”

Getting out of the house for something other than work would be nice. Hank shrugged. “All right, I'll go. Just so the ticket won’t go to waste. I don’t expect them to win though.”

Jeffrey whopped him on the arm. “Hey, you never know.”

* * *

A miracle of all miracles, the Tigers actually did win by two home runs.

Jeffrey and Hank had joined the long procession of people making the long trek out of the stadium when a sudden buzzing in Hank's skull struck him. He clutched his head, confused by the pain until he realized he'd felt the sensation before…with Simone.

It meant there was another Immortal nearby.

Adrenaline surged within Hank as his head swept around, trying to pinpoint the source of the buzzing, but it proved to be an impossible task with so many people about.

Nevertheless, Hank shoved his way past as many as he could, going to the left once he'd reached the front of the crowd, ignoring the cursing and complaining about his rude behavior behind his back.

The signal was fading.

“No, no,” Hank muttered, spinning to his right instead. “Come on!”

And then it was just gone. Whoever the Immortal had been, challenging another of their kind to a duel must have been the last thing on their mind.

Hank sank down on his haunches, gritting his teeth in frustration. So many years without contact with his race. To have come so close yet so far all at once was maddening.

“Fuck.”

Coming to his feet as his cellphone began to ring and people filled the area around him, Hank plucked it from his pocket. The caller was Jeffrey.

“Hello?” he said with a touch of hesitation.

“What was that all about? You shot out of here like a bat out of hell.”

Hank swallowed the disappointment on his part. “I thought I saw someone I knew. Turned out I was wrong.”

Jeff blew out a breath. “Okay, well, think you can wait for me this time?”

“Yeah,” Hank replied, moving to the side of the crowd to get a better look at the tunnel Jeff would eventually be coming out of. “I can do that.”

Shame he couldn’t do anything else.

On the way home from the baseball game, Jeffrey eyed Hank in the passenger seat for a while before finally asking, “What really happened at the stadium? You looked frantic.”

Hank wondered if he should keep it to himself. No, the truth would be better all around. To a point that was.

“What I am,” he started. “When others of my kind are around, I can sense them. Like that tingly feeling when you know you’re being watched. I haven’t felt that in so long, I kind of forgot where I was. But I couldn’t find them.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, his gaze focused back on the road. “You could have just explained that, I would’ve understood.”

“I wasn’t really thinking straight at the time, Jeff.” He fiddled with the radio, going past any stations playing commercials. “I promise to tell you next time.”

Jeffrey shot him a grin. “Thanks. I’m interested what other Immortals are like. If they’re all as morose as you.”

“Oh, please,” Hank replied, secretly enjoying the playful ribbing. He hadn’t made many friends since moving to Detroit and Jeffrey had unexpectedly become a rather close one. All thanks to coincidence.

Hank couldn’t have ever predicted that the kid who used to live door next to him would become so important to him one day. “I’m not that bad.”

“You’re joking. You’re like an angsty teenager who uses metal music to drown out the world when nothing goes their way.” 

Hank scoffed. “Better than striking out at people for seemingly no reason.” He fell silent as he realized that now he could relate to Evan’s delinquent past. Strange that Hank had to grow older to do it. 

“Yeah, I suppose as a coping mechanism it works.” A beat. “Hank, if my wife wanted to introduce you to someone, what would you be interested?” Jeffrey had wisely never once mentioned Jeffrey or Cole to him. 

It took no time at all for Hank to reply, “No.” Even decades later, everything was too raw for him to consider letting anyone that close to him again.

Jeffrey let out a nervous laugh. “Thought so. Sorry, I promised I would ask.”

“It’s okay, I get it. Spouses can be pushy.” Hank hoped Jeffrey appreciated what he had. 

* * *

**Summer**

**2026**

He was unloading groceries from his car trunk when Hank gradually became aware that another set of eyes were upon him. Drizzling as it was, he wanted to get inside before the rain grew heavier.

Readjusting one of the bags so he could hold two of them on his right arm, Hank turned around and stopped as he saw a large Saint Bernard sitting at the end of his driveway.

Expecting to face a human, Hank’s first response to fling an insult died on his lips. So far as he could tell, the dog looked relatively healthy, a bright pink tongue hanging out of its mouth as it panted.

Hank took one step backward and felt one corner of his mouth quirk as the dog followed. Not barking or growling, just very interested in Hank’s movements.

A flash of lightning scorched the sky above, thunder sounding a moment later. The dog flinched, whining loudly as it bounded forward, pressing against Hank’s legs, its tag behind its legs.

“Not a fan of storms, huh?” Large brown eyes peered up at him, Hank telling himself they weren’t having any effect as he knelt down, examining the dog’s neck for any sign of a collar or tag. Nothing.

They, no, **he** was a stray.

Hank shivered as the weather turned to the worse, becoming a virtual downpour. Worried about his groceries, he moved to the front door, digging awkwardly for the keys in his jean pocket. Unlocking the door, Hank started to pull it open, surprised when the dog darted inside ahead of him, pushing the door wide open.

“Hey, I didn’t say you could come in!” Hank called out, thinking of any fleas or ticks the dog could be hiding. The last thing Hank wanted to do was spray and clean everything.

The dog ignored him, shaking his whole body to displace the rain that had gathered on his fur. Resigning himself to the fact he’d lost this battle, Hank dumped his groceries on the kitchen table. “Fine, have it your way then. Don’t expect me to feed you or anything.”

In the morning, Hank would call about having the dog picked up. He could barely take care of himself, let alone an animal. 

Something in his bed was warm and soft, Hank turning towards it half-asleep. When his pillow rose up and down, grumbling sounding against his ear, Hank started awake.

There in the middle of his bed laid the stray Saint Bernard, his back against Hank’s front, both eyes fully closed. Given how fast he’d reacted, Hank knew the dog was simply playing at sleep. He thought he’d closed the bedroom door, but maybe in his sleepy state, Hank hadn’t finished the job properly.

“Right, that’s enough of that.” He slipped off the bed, coming to stand at the end of the bed. “Off.”

Though the dog’s eyes opened and ticked towards Hank, he didn’t move one inch. Furrowing his brow, Hank touched the stray’s tail who snorted, raising his head to stare at him as if wondering why his nap had been interrupted. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hank said, grabbing the end of the comforter with both hands. “You’re the one intruding here, not me.” He pulled on it slowly so the dog landed on his back feet amid the bedding on the floor.

Seeming confused, the stray tilted his head before walking out of the bedroom. Hank followed, wary of his intentions. It’d been hours since the dog had been outside so maybe that was exactly what he wanted.

Sure enough, the stray stopped next to the front door and Hank quickly opened it, relieved when he went straight out to the grass. “That’s one problem solved,” muttered Hank, starting to close the front door. Now he had to find out if the animal had let in any extra unwanted passengers.

There was a loud series of barks, Hank jumping as the door was ripped out of his grip, the stray barreling into his house again, leaving a series of muddy paw prints behind. “Oh, hell no.”

The dog stopped in the kitchen, sniffing loudly, apparently in the market for food now as Hank approached him from behind, eventually cornering the dog. He knelt down, trying to pay no mind to the big brown eyes that gazed at him expectedly.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, pal, this is not your home. I just gave you somewhere to sleep until the storm passed,” Hank explained, having the distinct feeling the dog knew exactly what he was saying and didn’t care. “That’s over now, okay?”

Blowing out a breath, the dog leaned forward and licked the side of Hank’s face a few times as if he was apologizing for his rudeness. He sat back and panted, looking like he was grinning.

Hank fought a smile as he stood up, using the back of one arm to rub the animal’s saliva off. He’d say one thing for him, the dog was friendly and affectionate to a fault. Hank hadn’t heard him growl once.

“Don’t think a few kisses are going to change anything. I’m still calling animal control.” Nevertheless, he didn’t want them to think he’d allowed a stray to wander around his house filthy as hell. “All right, I’ll feed you, but after that you’re having a bath.”

Hank had made a horrible mistake.

He’d underestimated the amount of fur on the dog, the thick layers taking half a bottle of dish soap to fully lather up. At least the animal sat calmly in the middle of the tub, letting Hank work, letting out a yawn ever so often. There was also no sign of any creepy-crawlies, which was a minor blessing. Saved Hank some effort later on.

“I don’t even work this hard on cleaning myself,” Hank muttered, dismayed at how fast he was getting used to the dog’s presence. Having someone around he didn’t have to hide his real self from was refreshing. Though he knew starting over in another country, even one below his native Canada, would be hard, Hank had underestimated the difficulty.

Keeping to his manufactured history, even one with tidbits of truth in it was tiring, Hank all the more grateful he had at least one friend who knew him for who he really was. How the hell had Simone managed to get used to it? Granted, once all your family and friends died, he guessed it got far simpler.

The dog whined as Hank stilled, a pang of grief rising in him as he wished he’d been able to keep a hold of his family throughout the whole Immortal business.

It would have been easier…or maybe harder if Cole and Evan had kept on aging and he hadn’t. Hank already knew he would have never been able to leave them to start anew if they had lived instead of died. He was a stubborn bastard who liked keeping hold of what was his.

Something flopped against him and Hank blinked at the sudden sensation of wetness as it soaked through the front of his shirt. He chuckled, leaning back from the dog. “Fine, I’ll pay attention to you. Jeez, what an attention hog.” Hank somehow didn’t hate it though.

Once he’d rinsed the dog off, Hank pulled the shower curtain and let him shake to his heart’s content. He spent the time waiting for the stray to finish lying down towels on the floor so he wouldn’t have to clean up a mess later on. Undoing the curtain, Hank patted his knee, urging the dog over the side of the tub.

It didn’t take long for him to catch on, the dog easily coming to rest on the pile of towels. “Hmm, you’re lucky I have a hairdryer, otherwise this would take forever.” Plugging the device in, Hank turned it on, the dog turning away from the rush of hot air. “What, this bugs you? You’re a big boy, you can take it.”

As he worked the dryer over the dog’s body, alternating cold and hot air with the single click of a button, Hank’s mind went back to Cole who’d wanted a dog so bad but never got the chance.

_“Not those lap ones, something you can really play with,” Cole said excitedly, glancing away from the sitcom they were watching. “Big and intimidating like sumo wrestlers.”_

_Evan raised an eyebrow. “How do you know about that?”_

_“Devon’s dad used to live in Japan and he had videos. It’s all in a ring and-“ Hank met Evan’s eyes over Cole’s head as he continued speaking, shrugging one shoulder. There were weirder things he could have stumbled onto out of their sight. The small nearly imperceptible nod in agreement on Evan’s part did not go unnoticed._

_“Oh, yeah?” Evan asked, tugging at Cole’s hand as he stood up from the couch. “Tell me more while I cook dinner.”_

_Cole’s eyes lit up. “Pizza?”_

_“I suppose we could do that. Hank?”_

_“Sounds good to me,” he replied, smiling at the pair heading to the kitchen, a spring in Cole’s step. The boy never wanted for anything despite having lost the one who birthed him, proving Evan was a great father. Hank wasn’t sure he could be as strong in his place._

Hank came back to himself, the dog’s fur mostly dry now. Though he hadn’t been aware of it, his eyes were wet. He shook his head, deciding it was not the time to indulge his emotions. There were better things to do.

“I’m going to call that done,” Hank announced, his arms sore from all the activity. He stretched them to the ceiling momentarily, his eyes on his houseguest. “Food?”

The dog lurched forward out of the bathroom, his paws scrabbling on the hardwood floor hallway. Of course he would know that word, what animal didn’t?

Tickled by the honest reaction, Hank followed on his heels, trying to think what he had in his fridge that would work. He wasn’t much of a cook, ordering out a lot. There was some leftover stir-fry. Meat, veggies, and rice. Surely the dog would like that? One way to find out.

Knowing it probably wasn’t the healthiest meal, Hank dumped the Chinese food into a bowl and put it down on the floor. The dog tore into it with gusto, all but demolishing it in a matter of minutes. He was licking his chops as he raised his head, prompting Hank to provide a water bowl as well.

As he partook of it, Hank picked up his cellphone. He looked up the phone number he needed, stopping before dialing to let the dog out into the backyard. Most of it was covered in garden tiles so there was no way he could dirty himself up again.

Hank stepped out, the smell of rain hitting his nostrils. The storm had cleared the air of humidity, doing away with some of the heat that had built up the last few days. Watching the dog race around, seemingly chasing nothing in particular, Hank was glad to see him enjoy himself. 

“You get a new pet?” A female voice called out loudly, Hank turning to see his neighbor Kristen sitting on her patio. “He’s an excitable one.”

Looking down at the phone in his hand, poised to call animal control, Hank realized that much like himself, the dog was looking for something to belong, a place to call home. For some reason, he liked Hank and it wasn’t like he couldn’t spare the room.

Hank let his phone go dark, looking back towards Kristen. “Yep, that’s…” Cole’s face flashed briefly in his mind’s eye. “Sumo.”

“Good,” Kristen responded enthusiastically, approval in her voice. “You could use the company.”

Hank nodded. “I could indeed.” 

* * *

**November 6th, 2038**

He’d knocked off work early, going to one of his favorite bars, of which there were many. Hank had known what was coming, having been informed by Jeffrey that the experimental detective model sent by CyberLife would be arriving at the station that evening.

Not wanting to have anything to do with it, Hank had gotten his reports done in record time, deciding he was due a few shots for his accomplishment. Savoring the varied flavored notes of scotch, he’d nearly relaxed when the door to the bar opened again and _it_ arrived. Someone at the station must have blabbed.

Hank surreptitiously examined the android without letting on that he was aware of its presence. The longer he could avoid interacting with it, the better.

Since the 1960s, Hank had seen technology progress in leaps and bounds, quickly leaving him behind. It was only through dogged determination that Hank managed to use the bare minimum modern-day tools of the trade his job required.

Androids were an entirely different matter. Why did they have to look like people? If they were machines at their core, the need for a face was useless, wasn’t it? Hank couldn’t understand the general public’s need to attach a face to such things to make themselves more comfortable. In his opinion, a technology that advanced should put people ill at ease.

As Hank looked at it, or rather him, he noticed CyberLife had at least gone for a handsome face, if rather unassuming. While he appreciated the fact the android had to wear clothing that denoted its point of origin, did they have to design them to be so tight-fitting? His uniform left almost nothing to the imagination.

The android’s eyes skimmed the bar, passing over Hank as he walked forward. There had been a sign on the front door barring any android entry inside, but that hadn’t been much of an impediment for him at all. Was it because he needed to find Hank that he had broken the law, or was there another reason? Maybe there was a touch of rebellion in the android’s programming.

It didn’t take long for him to stop by Hank’s figure at the bar, the momentarily blank gaze the android cast his way all but telling Hank he was running a scan on him to confirm his identity.

“Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife,” he said, his voice polite and measured like Hank imagined a therapist would have, affecting an air of calm to keep the stress of those around him low. 

_And here we go._ Hank barely paid attention to Connor’s short story, more focused on taking the time he had left before he had to work last longer. He tried to dismiss Connor rudely to experiment, but the android didn’t react at all, Hank scoffing in response. So much for realistic programming.

Then Connor looked to the bartender and ordered him another round. A double even when Hank requested it. Dumfounded, Hank took the drink, eyeing Connor. Would a machine really encourage him to imbibe alcohol when he was on call?

Espousing the wonders of technology sarcastically, Hank took a sip. Connor did nothing to stop him, the very epitome of patience. Huh, well, maybe the rest of the evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Did you say homicide?” 

“How’d you do that, Connor?” Hank asked as he watched the traumatized android walk calmly between the two police officers down the hallway, heading for the holding cells further into the station.

If he hadn’t known better, Hank would have assumed the android was an ordinary human, particularly in the way he held himself and shied away from any touch like he expected nothing but abuse. It was a bit sad really. 

Standing at Hank’s side was Connor, his hands laced in front of him, the picture of patience and calm. “Putting people at ease and making them think I’m on their side is merely part of my programming.”

Hank narrowed his brow, Connor’s affable expression belaying the calculating nature of his words. “Would you consider yourself on my side then?”

Connor nodded. “Of course, lieutenant. It’s encoded in my prime directives.”

Despite not wanting to delve deeper into a subject he felt ill at ease with, Hank couldn’t help pushing the issue. “And if that wasn’t the case?”

The android’s perfect poise broke briefly as a few of the fingers on his right hand twitched. “What are you implying?”

“Honestly, if you could tell CyberLife to fuck off and do what you wanted, would you want to be here helping me at all?”

It took Connor a second to reply, his voice unsteady for a second. “I-I’m not a deviant. Engaging in these hypotheticals is a useless exercise, lieutenant. I fail to see why you bother.”

Hank was inwardly pleased to see Connor could become uncomfortable in a situation. “To you maybe.” He stepped away from Connor, noting the almost lost expression on his face.

If this sentience epidemic was as widespread as it seemed, Hank figured it was only a matter of time before it got to Connor too. But clearly, he wasn’t there. Yet.

* * *

Connor stood gazing at the city landscape, looking like he didn't quite know to do with himself.

Stopping midway to his car, Hank gripped the neck of the glass bottle in his hand tighter. He glanced back and sighed. The alcohol in his gut had warmed him through, but it couldn't touch the uneasiness he felt at the thought of Connor all alone.

Hank chucked the liquor bottle into the trash can next to him and went back the way he came, the pleasant surprise in Connor's features as he turned around making Hank feel like an asshole for pulling a gun on him moments ago. 

The problem was the world was easy to classify and Connor, for all his insistence on programming and missions, didn't fit into any of Hank's mental boxes.

The android was friendlier and kinder than some of the police officers he'd worked with in his career. Despite wanting to solve the deviant case, Connor didn't seem to want to go to extremes to do it, especially if it meant Hank or another android could get hurt.

Hank wondered if he had been projecting his own desires onto Connor without knowing it and his new partner had silently picked up on it. Realizing he'd been staring at Connor, Hank shook himself mentally.

“Connor,” he started, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. “I'm sorry for threatening you.”

Connor looked nonplussed. “As you can see I'm fine. I've gotten used to your eccentricities.”

“I bet,” Hank shot off, unable to help feel a bit annoyed. “Listen, Connor, when you leave me at the end of the night, where do you go?”

His brow narrowing, Connor took a few steps closer to Hank. “Back to CyberLife Tower on Belle Isle.”

“What, do you have to recharge your batteries or something?” 

Connor stared at him, Hank’s joke completely passing him by. “No, I'm an entirely autonomous being. My batteries, as you put it, would only ever run out if several key components inside me were missing.”

Thinking he was crazy for even considering the idea, Hank took a deep breath. “So you'd be fine staying at my house then. I mean, you always have to track me down the next day anyway. Might as well save yourself some time.”

The LED diode on the side of Connor's head went wild for an instant, Connor visibly startled before he recovered. “I suppose that makes a great deal of sense.”

“Good, now let's go home.”

He could feel Connor studying him as they walked back to the car, Hank tossing him his car keys once they'd reached the parking lot. Though he hadn't drunk that much alcohol, Hank wasn't sure if he should be driving. Better to be safe than sorry.

“Will you be all right on the couch?” Hank asked, shucking his winter coat. Sumo excitedly pressed against his side, whining for attention. “I don't even know if you sleep.”

He knelt down, rubbing the dog's ears and head, Hank amused at Sumo's dopey blissful expression. It took so little to make him happy.

“I can when the occasion calls for it,” Connor replied, standing by the couch awkwardly. “But I have yet to indulge in the practice.”

“Bunch of firsts for you tonight. Going home with another man, sleeping, just think what tomorrow will be like.” Hank only realized the innuendo in his words until he'd finished saying them. “I mean…”

Hank jumped when he glanced at Connor and found his partner standing before him, curiosity painted across his features. Sumo, the coward, slipped out from between them to go lay down in his bed in the corner.

“I thought you didn't like androids,” Connor said, sounding perplexed. “Yet you refer to me as a man and not a machine.”

His throat dry, Hank swallowed. “You're whatever I want you to be, remember? If I decided you were a toaster, I'd hand you bread and let you get on with it.”

One side of Connor's mouth rose and he chuckled underneath his breath. It was the first time Hank had seen him ever laugh, Connor looking carefree for a moment, so unlike his usual self.

Silently, moving slow as if afraid to spook him, Connor raised his hand and placed it on Hank's cheek. He thought Connor's fingers would be cold, but they were warm to the touch.

“Is it wrong to think you’re starting to grow fond of me?” Connor asked, his voice pitched low. “It would certainly make working together much easier.”

Hank opened his mouth, not sure what to say. “I don't hate you.” At first, yeah, he resented having Connor foisted on him with only a day’s warning. Now though…”I just can't figure out what you are exactly.”

Doubt and what seemed like fear entered Connor's eyes, the stark vulnerability he displayed raising all sorts of questions in Hank. The urge to erase that anxiety overcame him, Hank pressing forward unconsciously, Connor’s hand moving from Hank's face to the top of his shoulder, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips for a second.

“Lieutenant?”

If he hadn't been an android…no, if he hadn't been Connor, Hank would have been able to ignore it entirely. As it was, the unexpected sight was enough to stop Hank dead, realizing what he'd been about to do.

The sudden real possibility of what could happen between them was like a slap in the face, whatever remnants of alcohol in Hank's system fading away.

“I, uh, should go to bed.” He couldn't look Connor in the eyes, uneasy with the situation, at the tension that stretched between them. “We'll talk about this later.”

If Hank was brave enough.

“Truly?”

Hank risked a look and winced at the hopeful expression on Connor's features. It was better than the earlier uncertainty, but not by much. “Yeah, really.”

What had he gotten himself into? He didn't do handholding, comfort, and warm fuzzies. Hank had thought he was past all that, his heart closed to any type of romance. He didn’t think he was that hard-up for companionship, almost kissing Connor like that.

Hell, Hank didn’t even know if Connor had the same desires as a mortal man to pursue and maintain a relationship in him. Was he even interested in men if he hadn’t been produced with the intention in mind? There were too many unknown variables.

“Sumo,” he said, looking down at the dog who sat at his feet, having trailed after him into the bedroom. “Your owner is an idiot.” The dog’s answering whine and head tilt did nothing to alleviate Hank’s worries. 

He was never so grateful for the privacy and darkness of his bedroom as he was that night.

* * *

Hank couldn't stop thinking of what could have happened in Stratford Tower. The deviant android accomplice had been shot dead by Connor, saving the crowd of police officers working the crime scene.

While Connor seemed frustrated at their case's lack of progress, Hank was more concerned by the huge blue stain on Connor's chest, a steady drip hitting the floor every few minutes.

“Come here,” Hank said, grabbing Connor by the arm. They slipped into the elevator and went down one floor. Finding what he was looking for, Hank entered the staff room, snatched a bottle of Thirium, and dragged Connor to the bathroom.

“Can you mark it out of order?” Connor did as Hank ordered, the bathroom door electronically locking behind them once Hank checked all the stalls to confirm they were alone. He didn’t want anyone walking in on them and reading the situation wrong.

Coming to a stop in front of Connor, Hank frowned. “Strip.”

“Pardon?”

“You're injured,” he clarified, pointing to the stain on his chest that was neither getting bigger or smaller. “Or rather you were.”

There was the barest hint of red in Connor's cheeks as he pulled off his jacket and shirt. This close Hank could see all the detail CyberLife had put into his model, right down to the light freckles and moles.

The skin was untouched around the blue blood and Connor flinched when Hank brushed the barest of fingertips against the area. “What happened?”

“The deviant pulled out my regulator pump,” Connor said calmly as if Hank had merely inquired about the weather. “What you'd call my heart. If I hadn't been able to reinstall it, termination would have been a certainty.”

The sudden flash of agitation in Hank at the thought of Connor suffering in silence was unexpected and he dropped his hand back to his side. He turned to the sink and grabbed the Thirium bottle he left there a few minutes ago.

He pushed it into Connor's hand. “Drink, you've lost a lot of blood.” Connor watched him for a long moment, then did he was bid as Hank gathered together some wet paper towels.

While he knew androids couldn't feel pain, that they could take so much damage and keep on ticking didn't seem right. What he wondered was if they had any self-preservation instincts in their programming, did they actually feel fear in situations where they might die?

“You seem troubled, lieutenant.”

Hank shook his head as he gently started cleaning up Connor's chest, the blue blood disturbingly hot against his fingers. “I guess I'm slowly realizing this case isn't as cut and dry as I assumed.”

Connor put his head to the side, studying Hank. “Because of the message the deviants broadcast here?”

“Kind of,” Hank replied, dumping the dirty paper towels in the trash. “It's more that I've never really taken the time to get to know any androids. You're not what I thought you were.”

Hank hoped he wasn't being offensive, but he really was stumped by Connor who could take his own death in stride, yet still want to protect humans from it.

The wound looked better, the slight cut into the skin appearing to close up in front of Hank’s eyes.

“What am I to you, Hank?” The sudden personal use of his first name was jarring but more than that the downright imploring expression on Connor's face seemed to beg him for the right answer.

“You're my partner,” Hank said, sidestepping the main issue. “I don't know about anything else, not right now anyway.”

Connor finished draining the bottle of Thirium, tossing it into the recycling bin. “I suppose I can live with that. It's more than I expecting from you anyway.” He put his shirt and jacket back on, the bathroom door unlocking shortly.

“Connor?”

“Hmm?” He was looking down and adjusting his tie.

Hank had to ask, his curiosity killing him. “If you had died here, what would have happened?”

“CyberLife would have sent a replacement.” 

He considered that possibility as they boarded the elevator. “Same model, same memories?” Hank knew Connor had been something of an experimental android model.

“Most likely, yes,” Connor replied matter-of-factly. “But the transfer process isn't perfect and some things would have gotten lost.”

Hank blew out a breath. “Then I'm glad you survived.” He walked out onto the broadcast floor again, hoping they'd be able to leave soon. The additional android death had unfortunately put more work on their plate.

He almost missed Connor's soft reply, having to strain to hear it. “Me too.”

* * *

All around him hundreds of androids were waking up, the same face going on for miles and miles. Just one touch, one virus was all it had taken. Humanity at its best.

They had to take the elevator in turns, Hank settling back and watching, his ribs sore from the scuffle he'd had earlier with the fake asshole who'd posed as Connor. He'd knew something had been off about him, but figured maybe CyberLife had stressed him out about how poorly he was doing his job. How wrong Hank had been.

Connor standing nearby, his gaze locked on his dead double lying on the floor.

“Glad that's not you?” he questioned, Connor shifting his eyes to Hank. He didn’t anticipate the sadness in them.

“Yes and no. Mostly I feel bad that he couldn't see what I'd experienced as a catalyst for change. I understand now how off-putting it must have been the first time we met. Someone so single-mindedly plodding along with no concept of how blind to inevitability he was.”

Stepping up next to him, Hank hit Connor's shoulder. “Hey, you weren't that bad. I was an asshole who didn't know any better.”

One side of Connor's mouth quirked upward. “Actually, you were very understanding and patient given the circumstances. It's why I wanted to maintain a close relationship with you. Because I thought you were a good man who'd fallen on hard times.”

Hard times. Connor had no idea how screwed up Hank really was.

“And here I thought you just liked me for my dog.”

“That too.” It was a lame attempt at joking, but it proved Connor was trying and one day he’d get to a point where it was natural behavior for him.

The elevator dinged again, its doors opening. There were a few other androids left now, the vast room almost empty.

“We should go,” Connor announced, holding out a hand to Hank as his fellow kin went ahead of them.

He'd resisted such a hand for so long. From anything and everyone. How Connor had managed to break down his resistance so fast Hank had no idea.

“Lieutenant?”

Shrugging off his hesitation, Hank took Connor's hand, the fingers soft against his own. He allowed himself to be pulled inside the elevator, coming to stand near the back.

The brief squeeze Connor gave his fingers as he let go of Hank's hand set off a jolt through his system, a familiar pleasing warmth settling throughout his chest. A feeling he hadn't felt for so long.

Shit.

Hank couldn't believe it. An android of all people.

Connor was a goddamn miracle worker and shockingly, Hank didn't want to lose him.

“When this is all over,” Hank said. “For better or worse, you better come back to me. You remember that food truck we went to together a few days ago? Meet me there.”

He took a deep breath, Hank nervous about putting himself out there. “I'll wait as long as it takes.”

The smile that gathered on Connor's face was dazzling as he looked to Hank. “Then I will endeavor to survive no matter what it takes.”

Feeling himself flush, whether in embarrassment or at the rush of cold air as the elevator doors opened, Hank nodded. “You better.”

* * *

Connor had returned unscathed, looking like the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders. As he approached Hank, he suddenly stopped, uncertainty crossing his features.

Wanting to wipe the hesitation away, Hank smiled at him, Connor responding in kind a second later. Acting on impulse, Hank strode forward and pulled his partner into a hug. How Connor wasn't colder in the winter air Hank had no idea.

He settled closer to Connor in the embrace, closing his eyes as Hank enjoyed the first bit of intimate contact with someone he'd had in years. Not a friend or suspect, but someone who he genuinely felt fond of.

Connor let out a light sigh. He started to pull back, his hands coming to rest on Hank's waist. “Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?”

A shiver crept up Hank's spine at the sudden request. He assumed Connor hadn’t possessed the same drives like a normal man, or that CyberLife would bother installing such things in an experimental model.

He licked his lips, interested in what he was letting himself in for if he allowed it. “…No.”

“Thank you,” Connor said warmly before he pressed his mouth against Hank's, freezing him to the spot. Well aware that they had passed the point of no return in their relationship, Hank was half tempted to throw caution to the wind and go with it while the other saner half of Hank screamed at him to push Connor off and tell him what for.

Tired of fighting, Hank told both halves to shut the fuck up and enjoy it.

As far as kisses went, it was relatively chaste, Connor’s mouth soft and warm against his. Hank didn’t know what he’d expected as far as taste or texture but everything was normal, even down to the basic anatomy. He pushed things further, Hank’s interest in Connor's sensitivity making him bold.

Making a small moan, Connor opened his mouth further, letting Hank properly explore. He was placid at first, responding in small increments, a brush here, lick there before Connor took control of the kiss entirely.

He responded so aptly that Hank thought those at CyberLife had thought far too hard about Connor’s potential methods in solving crimes. A few minutes later, Hank broke off from Connor as his stomach jerked upward, his breath shaky.

“Okay…time out.”

Connor immediately stopped, though disappointment crossed his face as he did so, proving he wasn’t so infallible as Hank thought.

That was the thing about his partner, he never did things Hank expected, his status as a machine something he could easily overlook. Even before Connor had turned deviant, there had been enough hints that there was a real personality lurking underneath the base programming that Hank couldn’t leave him alone.

And now it seemed that feeling had been mutual, but god knew what Connor thought was so remarkable about Hank. His ability to make liquor disappear at an alarming rate?

“This is not the reunion I was expecting,” Hank confessed, looking down at his grip on Connor’s hand. He knew underneath the supple layer of skin was a hard-white shell that had been assembled within the walls of a factory. Having started off as little more than a collection of cells, Hank didn’t have room to throw stones about origins, not when Connor and his kind had proved they were human at heart. “But it’s a nice surprise.”

Connor smiled at him and Hank felt a rush of warmth clutch at him. “When you didn’t refuse my request to deepen our relationship, I felt relief. Throughout this whole case, your company has been an unexpected pleasure despite your foibles. I wanted…”

Trailing off, Connor looked to the side before continuing. “No, I _needed_ to be closer to you and as I was going deviant anyway, I may as well go the full course.”

Hank felt both humbled and a tiny bit insulted. He wasn’t a paragon of humanity, far from it, but felt he did enough good in his life to outweigh the bad. The only damage he did was to himself, and for that Hank blamed fate itself for handing him a raw deal.

Patting Connor’s shoulder with his free hand, Hank said uneasily, “Connor, I can’t promise this will end well. After all, we really haven’t known each other long. With all the fallout from the android shit, who knows what’s going to happen in the future?”

Connor tugged him closer. “All the more reason to explore our bond further. I know you’ve experienced a great deal of tragedy in your life and I’d like to help correct that if I may. If you don’t find that too presumptuous, lieutenant.” His optimistic tone was catching.

“Hank,” he replied quickly. “Call me Hank, Connor.”

Leaning forward, Connor kissed his cheek before retreating. “Hank.” The name was said quietly, Connor appearing to take a great deal of satisfaction in saying it. Hank too was glad to see the formality permanently dropped.

There was a lot Connor didn’t know about him, that Hank didn’t want anyone to know, but for a while, maybe it would be nice sharing his life with someone who wouldn’t make demands on him, who needed to have another person show him the ropes until he felt comfortable inside his own skin.

“Okay,” Hank announced, Connor’s radiant expression going straight to the core of him. “Let’s give it a try.” 

The second the front door shut, Hank still on edge from the long-extended kiss in front of the food truck, the drive home a small form of torture, he immediately reached for Connor, pressing him against the wall.

“Before we get too much further, you can do this, right? I’d hate to start anything and find out that the sex androids at the Eden Club were the exception to the rule.”

Connor was out of breath, his face flushed. “I assure you that I have all the necessary equipment for this particular endeavor, though I have never used it before.” He started when Hank slid a hand into the hem of his pants, out to prove Connor wasn’t lying. 

“In that case,” Hank breathed, touching upon something familiar and hot that was indeed fully useable. “Do you have any preference?”

When Hank unzipped his pants for closer access, Connor moaned low in his throat, his head dipping down to rest on Hank’s shoulder. “I don’t care so long as it’s with you.”

The tension in his stomach coiled sharply in response, Hank brought up his free hand to clutch the back of Connor’s neck. That he could feel so much passion was amazing. Hank wanted to repay that trust in full.

As Connor lifted his head, Hank kissed him, working his fingers around what felt like an entirely normal organ. “All right,” he muttered in between breaths. “Then I’ll try to make it as easy as possible for you.”

“Good,” Connor said, his hands exploring Hank’s back, the faint edge of fingernails enough to cause Hank shiver against him.

Retrieving his hand from Connor’s lower half, Hank started to lead them to the bedroom. “Sorry if I’m rushing you, but it’s been a while for me and you’re a much better kisser than you have any right to be. We can stop anytime you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m glad to see my research into the subject bore fruit. Kissing is a very complex practice relying more on intuition than-“

Hank kissed Connor briefly in the bedroom doorway. “You’re such a nerd. Shut up and feel, why don’t you?”

“Happy to,” Connor replied pleasantly. 

Without preamble, Hank started stripping, Connor following suit after a few seconds. Eyeing Connor once he stood wholly naked, Hank had to admit CyberLife had outdone itself on the realism aspect. Even the equipment that marked his partner’s gender was perfect and lifelike.

“Good genes there,” Hank said nervously, his hands frozen on the top of his jeans, suddenly more than aware that though he had to reach and sustain certain levels of physical activity for his job, Hank's diet left something to be desired.

Connor slowly approached him. His hands wandered down to Hank's own and helped him tug down his jeans. “I don’t care what you look like, Hank. If I wanted an Adonis, I could’ve very easily gone out and found one.”

Down too went the boxers, falling to the floor. “But,” Connor continued, seemingly satisfied with Hank's current state of undress. “I want you and only you.”

Crap, why the hell was Connor was so goddamn sappy, and why was Hank falling for it like some kind of naïve rube?

“You’re an idiot,” Hank replied, walking them to the bed. “But I guess that’s okay.”

Trailing his fingers gently down Connor’s chest, Hank honestly couldn’t tell the difference from his own skin and Connor’s aside from indicators of age. He was no less sensitive either, his breath catching every time Hank brushed an erogenous zone, sweat soon breaking out on his body.

All too soon, Hank forgot Connor was an android, the heat of his partner’s fingers tight on his shoulders as he leaned over Connor’s lower half, putting his mouth to good use, intent on drawing as many sounds from Connor as he could.

“Hank, please,” Connor gasped out, pushing at Hank slightly. Worried he’d gone too far, Hank sat back, letting out a breath of relief when he saw Connor was just overwhelmed, his whole body trembling underneath him, eyes slightly wet. Hank didn’t have the guts to say it out loud, but Connor had never looked more appealing in his very short life.

While he recovered, Hank touched Connor’s shoulder lightly. “Sorry.” He’d forgotten this was all new to Connor, Hank’s own excitement overriding his common sense. As Connor went quiet, calming down, he asked, “Want to get your revenge?”

“How?”

Smirking, Hank slipped off the bed and opened the drawer on his nightstand. He tossed the small tube to Connor who expertly caught it, discerning its use in an instant. “I see. Is it for you or me?”

“I said I would make it easy remember?” Hank reminded gently, getting up on the bed again. “Screw off that lid and smear some on your fingers.”

Following the instructions with a raised eyebrow, Connor watched with interest as Hank got onto his lap, all but straddling him. 

Hank grabbed Connor’s hand, bringing it to his lower half as he crouched over him. Despite expecting it, the feel of slick digits on his sensitive skin made him jump. It had been a long time since Hank had let anyone else this close.

His breath caught when Connor took the initiative, Hank not even having to say anything. Connor was slow as he explored, watching Hank’s every movement. It didn’t take long to provoke a reaction, Hank unsuccessfully stifling his moan.

“Please don’t,” Connor said, pushing himself up on one arm. “I want to hear your voice.”

Connor shifted his fingers purposefully and Hank panted, digging his fingernails into the sheets around him. “O-Okay, but I don't see what's so exciting about me.”

“Hank.” He looked at Connor, wondering why he suddenly looked so serious. “You’ve managed to accomplish so many things in your life, but you need to work on your self-esteem.”

Before Hank could reply, Connor continued, “The way your muscles flex with every movement, the color riding high in your neck and face, the voice that is usually so deep that goes ragged at any kind of stimulation…there is much about you to be appreciated right now.”

Connor had the gull to look so damn earnest about it that Hank had to assume he was telling the truth.

“Fine,” Hank quipped, deciding Connor could say what he wanted, even if he sounded deluded as hell. “Prepare to have your ears blasted.”

“I'd like nothing better,” Connor replied happily, then proved it by proceeding to drive Hank slowly insane.

By the time five minutes had gone by, Connor stroking him from the inside, Hank was ridiculously close to breaking, his nerves shot. “That’s enough,” Hank said, placing a hand over Connor's wrist.

Shit, he was too out of practice to go any further.

“Then may I come in?” The polite question somehow tickled Hank as if Connor were some old-fashioned traveling salesman come to discuss the fine wares he had to offer.

His head dipping as he stifled laughter, Connor frowned at him. “Are you quite well?”

Hank cleared his throat, the moment of mirth passing. “Sorry, just nervous. It's been a while.”

Connor practically radiated comfort and happiness at him as he replied, “I would never hurt you.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Hank responded, placing hands on Connor's stomach as he lifted himself up, looking down to confirm the angle was right. It was more work for him this way, but given the circumstances, Hank wanted to maintain control of the situation.

“Then what?”

Hank glanced up at Connor for a second, briefly irritated that he insisted on talking so calmly considering what they were about to do. “We’re kind of having a moment here, Connor. Focus, will you?”

He sank back down to prove his point, a shudder running up his spine as Connor let out a low groan, his eyes fluttering shut. Hank had forgotten the almost electric feeling of having something rub against him within, a veritable cascade of pleasure razing against his nerves with each stroke he completed.

Connor was wider than he was used to, but he fit well in terms of length, the heat that rubbed at Hank another thing to appreciate, gradually picking away at his restraint. Rolling his hips, enjoying the bliss it invoked, Hank looked down at Connor, the flushed features and trembling frame all but telling him that maybe Hank wasn't as rusty as he thought.

“Are you okay?” Hank asked, sweat beading on his brow.

It took a few seconds for Connor to speak, which was on par with a minor miracle in Hank's book. “Your movements are very…stimulating to my system. It's both glorious and scary.”

Hank felt a smile pull at his lips. “Are you saying you find this act hot as hell?”

“Correct,” Connor replied, his hands tightening on Hank's hips, his fingers twitching slightly.

“Good,” Hank said, starting to move again. He shivered when Connor reached for his front, taking a light grip, his hand quickly warming up, adding another element of stimulation.

Feeling like he was riding a very thin line of too much too fast, Hank's careful pace soon waned, resorting to going over basketball stats in his head to avoid the inevitable.

While his own pleasure was well and good, Hank wanted this to be a memorable experience for Connor and was determined to see him come first. Going for broke, Hank squeezed down, gratified as the body underneath him trembled, Connor biting his lower lip.

It was a moment of beauty when Hank heard Connor cry out below him, his face never so vulnerable…or erotic. Though he'd anticipated there might be some mess, it seemed Hank's worries had been for naught.

Connor was firing, for all intents and purposes, blanks in that regard. As he shuddered underneath Hank, his own finish crept up on him and he writhed, hearing himself gasp in breathy sighs.

Aftershocks ran up his spine as Hank collapsed on top of Connor, wrung out. For a second, Hank thought the racing heartbeat he heard was his until he realized it was Connor's. The person who he had never seen out of control was a sweating shivering mess beneath him.

Pride and affection filled his chest, Hank was about voice a bit of it when Connor wrapped his arms around him and pushed forward, Hank landing on his back against the bed, a shock of heat clutching at him.

One thing was immediately clear: Connor was not done. He'd never even gone limp.

Before things got out of hand, Hank about punched Connor in the arm, trying to get his attention. “What…”

Words failed him as Connor began to shift again, fire searing across Hank's nerves. With it being so soon since his last climax, everything was oversensitive, the slightest shift in movement almost painful in its intensity.

“I don't have a refractory period,” Connor explained patiently as Hank dug his fingernails into Connor's back, a burst of warmth under them indicating that he'd accidentally broken skin.

“Oh, Christ.”

Hank hadn't been prepared for this, expecting Connor to be overwhelmed by one round of sex, yet he'd blown past Hank's s expectations and proved him wrong on all counts.

Connor lifted his head and beamed at him, Hank unable to do anything but respond in kind. Telling that ever-hopeful face no...Hank found he couldn't do it.

“I promise not to tire you out too much.” The earnest vow was just like his indomitably optimistic partner, given so solemnly Hank had no choice but to believe him.

For once, Hank was grateful he wasn’t wholly human, otherwise he definitely would have died. Again.

* * *

**Five Years Later**

**2042**

The whole drive home Hank could feel the weight of Connor's gaze upon him, his partner not saying a single word until they had passed through the front door of his house.

“Let me see it.”

Hank roughly brushed past Connor. If he could get to the bathroom ahead of Connor, he could avoid so much bother. “See what?”

Connor looked angry, putting his hands on his hips. Not so long ago, the gesture would never have occurred to Connor. He’d grown in leaps and bounds. “Your gunshot wound.”

“You’re mistaken, I just got grazed in the gunfight.”

Connor held up the palm of his right hand, an image projecting from the center of his palm to float in the air. It was clearly from Connor’s POV, the details sharp and clear as the smaller digital version of Hank slammed back against the alley wall. He put a hand over his arm, a tiny bit of red leaking out from between his fingers.

Hank bit his lip, surprised and not at the same time that Connor was able to broadcast his memories like that.

“You hid it well, even changing your jacket,” Connor said, the digital projection abruptly shutting off as he closed his hand. He proceeded to tug off Hank's jacket, exposing the duct tape that had been wrapped around his upper arm. 

Hank had done it too quickly and blood peeked out from the tape’s edges that had come up from patches of the skin. “But you **were** shot, not grazed.”

Connor disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve a pair of scissors for a few seconds. He pulled Hank into the bathroom, flipping on the overhead light, making him flinch from the sudden illumination. Carefully, Connor cut through the wad of duct tape, mindful of what lay underneath it.

Once he'd gotten the scissors far enough down, he tugged at one side and ripped the impromptu bandage wide open. There stuck on the right side of the duct tape was a spent bullet, covered in red. In the shirt sleeve of Hank's arm was one round hole, the skin under it smooth and unmarred despite the blood that had dried around the area.

Connor stared at the evidence before him for a long moment, then asked, “Does this have anything to do with the strange DNA marker in your blood?”

Hank felt himself go pale. He’d always thought the fact Connor could tell so much from simply putting things in his mouth was a little creepy. “You’ve tasted my blood?”

“It was when you cut yourself shaving a while back,” Connor replied bluntly. “I did it by accident while cleaning up. Old habits are hard to break.”

Shit, even his DNA had betrayed him.

Connor finished getting the duct tape off and wet a washcloth he fletched from under the sink. He started cleaning up Hank’s arm, his expression gentle but determined. “May I ask for an explanation or is this going to be another part of your life you shut me out of?”

Hank stared at the wall behind Connor, wishing confession was as easy as his partner made it out to be. He took a deep breath. Fuck it. He'd hidden it long enough.

“I can't die.”

For his part, Connor tilted his head, looking like Hank had merely commented on a case at work. “Ever?”

“Well, I should say I'm invulnerable to everything but decapitation,” Hank clarified, taking off his ruined shirt. A shame since it'd been one of his favorites and vintage clothing could be expensive these days.

Connor's fingers skimmed over his arm, his touch gentle as if he thought maybe the area was sensitive. It was, but not in the way Connor assumed. Driving home as his skin ejected the bullet had been maddening, the wound itchy as hell. Even now Hank wanted to rake his nails down it.

“Were you born like this?”

Hank suddenly realized the parallels between them. An undying man and an android, both of which could conceivably continue indefinitely without outside interference.

“I was human,” Hank said, his voice dropping low. “Once.” 

“As far as I’m concerned, you still are, Hank. How old are you?” Connor asked, draping a towel over Hank's shoulders when he began shivering.

It was math he did every day upon waking up. “I’m older than I look, Connor. I was born in 1960 and time has been untouched for me since October 2003. I'm originally from Canada and emigrated here a long time ago. It's easy to get lost in this country.”

“You are very well preserved for 84 years old.” Connor’s brow narrowed. “Your records are impeccable.”

“Our kind has to be to survive undetected,” Hank replied. “If it helps, Anderson is the second name I took on. Try Ashford in British Columbia if you're so curious.”

Connor paused for a minute, his eyes going dull. The usual behavior when he connected to sources outside himself. “Ah.”

“Found it?” Hank asked, rather amused by Connor's interest in him. So unlike Jeffrey who had taken Hank at his word about everything he’d revealed to him. 

Tilting his head, Connor glanced back at him. “Your handwriting is different.”

Hank lifted up both his hands, wiggling his fingers playfully. “Being ambidextrous has its perks.”

“I assume many if they see a photograph of you in your old life assume he's your father.”

“Right on the money.” Hank went onto the bedroom for a new shirt, Connor on his heels. After living with him for five years, Hank was well aware that when he became intrigued about a subject, Connor pursued it with a vengeance until he became a veritable expert on it.

Apparently, Hank was included in that now. 

“So, if your official paperwork says 53, but you're really 84…what happened in those missing years?” 

Hank frowned, looking away from Connor, using the excuse of scouring his closet for clothing choices. “I don't want to talk about that. It's sad and boring and I'm tired. Healing takes a lot out of me.”

Looking contrite, Connor nodded. “I understand, I'll leave you be then.”

“Why?” Hank asked as he reached out for Connor's hand. “I never said you couldn't sleep with me.”

“Just sleep?” Connor questioned wisely, knowing Hank far too well.

A chuckle dropped from Hank. “Yeah, I don't want to be alone tonight.”

Connor closed the distance between them, pressing a soft kiss against Hank's forehead. “Very well, let's go to bed.”

Sometimes Hank thought Connor was more than he deserved.

In the middle of scuffing down a donut, their stakeout quiet for the most part so far, Hank turned towards Connor when he asked out of nowhere, “Isn't being a cop exceptionally risky for you? Everything considered.”

Hank smirked. “In case you haven't noticed, I’m a bit of a reckless person.” He wisely kept the real reason to himself. “Besides if taking a few bullets helps save lives and I have to pretend to be injured for a while, it's not a bad trade-off.”

“How kind of you, Hank.”

He stared at Connor, wondering if maybe that had been true once upon a time. “Anything else you want to ask while I can’t escape?” He finished his donut, brushing his sticky fingers off on a napkin. 

“I don’t want to force you to answer my questions, Hank. If it’s truly something you wish to keep to yourself, I will gladly stop here before things go too far.”

“Too late,” Hank joked, holding up a hand when Connor opened up his mouth to respond. “Connor, when I chose to tell you the truth about me, I expected this. You’re a naturally inquisitive person and I won’t stand in the way of letting you indulge a side of yourself you couldn’t before.”

His partner was quiet for a few minutes as he gazed at Hank, his eyes a touch wet. “I never expected that you’d trust me to this extent. I must admit I’m a little humbled by it.”

“Right, well, don’t read too deep into it, I just don’t want things to get awkward at home.” Hank was lying through his teeth, not willing to confess that Connor was one of a select few that if the chips were down, he could rely on for anything.

Something in Connor’s expression told Hank he hadn’t fooled him with the quick excuse at all. “All right, does Captain Fowler know about your condition?”

After putting off replying for a few seconds while he sipped his coffee, Hank glanced at him, debating how much to tell Connor. “Jeffrey used to live next door to me in Canada. When things went bad and I tried to eat a bullet, Jeffrey was the one who found me afterward. It freaked him out to no tomorrow.

“Thought I was a superhero or something. Since I had no idea what was going on in the slightest, for a while I accepted that explanation. At least until I was corrected.”

Connor put his head to the side. “If you're originally from Canada, how did you manage to maintain a high-level position in the police force here?”

“Forgery mostly. It was expensive as hell, even with some outside assistance.” Hank chewed on the straw in his coffee cup. “Worth it though, not having to start from the bottom again.”

“Back at Stafford Tower during the android demonstration, now that I know you falsified some of your records…I know you lost your son because the pain in your eyes was still fresh even years later, but there's something else too, isn't there?”

Falling silent, Connor’s gaze landed on Hank’s hand, at the lack of a wedding ring. In Connor’s favor, he didn’t mention the incredibly obvious, simply reached out and lightly patted Hank’s hand.

Yeah, the subject was bound to come up sooner or later. The indentation may have faded around his ring finger, but sometimes Hank could feel its weight like some ghostly remnant. “…I lost a husband in the car accident too.”

“Oh.” Connor had never actually asked after his orientation but given how little gender seemed to matter to androids, maybe he didn’t see the point. Not to mention, sexual politics had come so far in Hank’s lifetime and would likely continue to evolve in the future.

“If it’s not too presumptuous, may I ask why you kept such a tragedy in your past when you could have started entirely over?”

Hank ticked his eyes over to Connor after making sure nothing was happening outside the car. The heavy conversation was definitely distracting him from their duty. “Because as much as I hate admitting it, my losses have helped define who I am. Ignoring them would be cheap and cowardly.”

“You're a very strong person.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “I don't feel like it.”

If Connor had been right, Hank would’ve never killed himself in the first place and gone on to live a completely normal life, dying a grizzled old man, his immortality laying forever dormant inside him. 

Perhaps reading his tense body language, Connor touched his shoulder, trying to provide some comfort. “The fact you're still here after everything you've gone through should be lauded.”

“Maybe.” The conversation had reminded Hank he had something he had to say to Connor in this impromptu heart-to-heart they were having. “You should know I never really hated androids specifically, just technology in general. After everything I’ve seen in my life, change is hard.”

“Especially when you remain unchanged yourself,” Connor replied, surprising Hank with the apropos statement. It showed a level of understanding Hank didn’t think Connor had reached yet. He chided himself for underestimating his partner’s adaptability and intelligence.

He glanced at Connor sadly, curious how different his partner would be in fifty years’ time. Already there were personality quirks that had appeared in their life together. “Something you’ll have to deal with too if you survive long enough.”

“At least I’ll have you at my side,” Connor replied with a smile.

Hank looked away. “…Yeah.”

One of these days, he would have to come clean, but that was not today.

* * *

“Back on the bridge after visiting the Eden Club, you lied to me,” Connor announced as he returned to the couch with an open beer for Hank and a bottle of Thirium for himself. It was something he drank about once a week, otherwise Connor abstained from everything else.

Hank muted the sports game on TV when it went to commercials, his eyes shifting to Connor. “Yeah?”

“You said you were too cowardly to commit suicide, that you were taking the slow way out.”

He scoffed. “You are aware that back then I didn’t fully trust you, right? Spilling my guts wasn’t something I could do.”

Though Connor didn’t know it, Hank had only lied about the drinking. The slow way for his kind was waiting for someone, _anyone_ , to take his head.

“Truth be told, I’ve been trying, again and again, to exit this life over the years, but no matter the method, it never takes. After all, I’m _still_ here.” 

Connor reached out and took his hand, his fingers cold from the bottle he’d been gripping seconds ago. “And I'm glad for it.”

“You aren’t disappointed you pulled a freak?” Hank asked, trying for a joking tone that unfortunately fell flat in its delivery. Despite having lived with Connor for five years, knowing he wasn't a callous person, that emotion seemed to be beyond him, part of Hank thought Connor would cast him aside someday and choose someone else. Someone normal.

True to form, Connor had the perfect answer ready. “Quite the contrary, Hank. Now that I know you're quite hardier than most humans, I no longer have to worry quite so much about your toxic behavior. Liver failure? Gone. Old age? Never. It's a blessing in disguise and I wish you had shared your secret with me earlier.”

“Yeah, right. It’s not really something I'm proud of, Connor.”

“Hmm,” Connor muttered to himself. “It also proves despite my artificial origins, my intuition is no less accurate than a normal human's.” He looked at Hank. “I knew there was something different about you the first time we met at Jimmy's Bar.”

The fact even an android could sense his otherness made Hank wonder if anyone else he'd met over the years had somehow picked up on it as well and steered clear of him out of instinct alone.

“Immortal or not, I have no plans to leave you anytime soon,” Connor said. “In fact, by revealing such rather fantastic news, you might be stuck with me for life.”

Though it was exactly what Hank had thought Connor would say, he wasn’t sure if it was wise for Connor to restrict himself like that. He was missing out on a lot by staying in his native Detroit. Connor had already turned down Markus’ invitation to join him in Washington as he and his friends worked out terms for android equality a while back.

And Hank knew he wouldn’t be around forever. Not if he had his way. 

“You’d be all right with that?” he asked as he scooted closer to Connor, lying an arm over his shoulders.

Connor winked at him. “It’s not such a cruel and unusual fate, you know. There are certain advantages to be had in this relationship of ours.” He turned towards Hank so he could lie on his side, Connor’s eyes alight in amusement.

“Oh, yeah? Care to remind me?” Hank teased, resting a hand on Connor’s hip.

As Connor leaned upward, meeting Hank’s mouth with his own, he quickly forgot about the basketball game altogether. Some things were definitely more important than sports.

* * *

**Three Years Later**

**2045**

“I'm just trying to say that drinking less would have a positive impact on your health,” Connor said, holding open the door to the alleyway behind the bar. The car was parked around the corner in the parking lot, less than a minute away.

“Connor,” Hank started, rubbing at his eyes in exasperation before dropping his hand. “You know my deal, it's not like it'll kill me. It hasn't for years and I've fucking tried several times. Lay off it, ok-“

Even though winter was since long past, Hank felt a chill run up his spine, a curious vibration eating along the whole of his skin. Like someone had walked over his grave. The sensation worsened with the next step he took and then he realized why with a heady mix of elation and dread.

Connor, noticing his silence, looked at Hank. “What's the matter? Did I anger you?”

“No, it's fine.”

Hank furtively surveyed the alley, drawn to the end of the alleyway where a tall man stood, his long shadow preceding him. He wore dark clothes, a long trench coat draping his wide frame.

Given it was a semi-warm night, Hank knew exactly what the man was trying to conceal. A weapon that made it easy to take heads.

“Hank Anderson?” The smooth baritone of the man's voice boomed out, the shine of his white teeth evident from the distance that separated them. “I've been looking for you. My name is Astor and I've come here to bring you to an end.”

That said, Astor reached into his coat, bringing out a long broadsword that gleamed in the overhead streetlight. “Please don't make this harder than it needs to be.”

Hank’s throat went dry as Connor took a step in front of him. “Lieutenant, that man has a sword,” Connor said, his sudden politeness kicking in, maybe as a result of the tense situation. “We should go.”

Unbidden, Hank started laughing, Connor looking at him sharply, plainly unable to see what was so funny.

Everything was ridiculous timing on Astor's part. If only he'd come sooner before Connor was even a thought in some CyberLife’s geek's head.

When the hilarity of the moment had passed, Hank shook his head in disbelief. “After so long, it’s _finally_ happened.”

“What?” Grabbing Hank’s arm, Connor dragged him back the way they came, taking a side exit to the parking lot, shortly opening the passenger car door for him.

“He’s like me,” Hank explained, his gaze locked on the glass of the back windshield as he got in the car. “Just way more dedicated and proactive about the Game.”

Connor sat down in the driver’s seat. He started the car and ripped out of the parking space, his usual dedication to the rules of the road forgotten in his panic. “Where can we go to avoid him?”

Hank looked at Connor and sighed. They weren't in the best place for a confrontation anyway. It was in their best interest to flee for now.

“Any kind of holy ground.”

“Very well, cemeteries and churches it is,” Connor replied, smoothly slipping the car into traffic. “I'll find one where we won't be disturbed.”

As Connor went silent, no doubt consulting various sources inside his head, Hank sank back into his seat, unable to believe what was happening.

He'd been reckless on purpose for years, hoping to catch another Immortal's attention. Hank had actually given up hope of it happening. Outside of his mentor and one brief encounter at a Tigers game, he'd never met another Immortal until tonight.

Strangely, part of him was scared of the development. The rest was pleased there would finally be relief. A cure he'd been desperate for was coming.

Connor's profile in the darkness of the car was tense, his brow furrowed, mouth pressed flat in apprehension. Hank wondered how his partner would take the news once he told him the plan. The surge of sudden tightness in his chest at the thought wasn't pleasant.

Whipping the car around a corner, Connor drove into a round driveway, then off-road around the right side of what looked to be a dilapidated Gothic church.

Hank knew the place, having driven by it a million times. It was Woodward Avenue’s Presbyterian Church, which had been abandoned for decades.

Connor parked the car behind a copse of trees, letting out a heavy breath as he turned the engine off. Hank noted his fingers were slightly unsteady as he let go of the steering wheel. He seemed to recoup, turning to Hank expectedly. “Let's find a way inside, shall we?”

The front doors were of course locked, Hank venturing to the left while Connor took the right side of the church. Despite sitting unused for years, the building looked quite solid and formidable.

“Hank!”

Following the sound of Connor's voice, Hank found him kneeling by a basement window, which was cracked down the middle. Waving Connor away from it, Hank kicked the window, the glass breaking easily. His partner took his jacket off and used it to wipe the edges of the window, laying out the piece of clothing over the bottom of it afterward.

“It doesn't feel right damaging city property,” Connor muttered, angling himself on the ground on his back, bringing both legs over the lip of the window.

“Needs must when the devil drives,” Hank replied, staying close to Connor as he slid his way through the window. A muffled grunt was heard once Connor disappeared from view into the darkness below. “You all right?”

Hank grabbed the flashlight he had taken from the car, quickly snapping it on, its ray bright as it pierced down into the depths of the basement.

“I'm fine,” Connor shot back, a pale hand urging Hank onward. “There's a sofa here. It cushioned my fall.” He took the flashlight Hank offered him, illuminating what looked to be a cluttered dirty basement.

Wishing they’d been able to find an easier way inside, Hank slid through the window, the hard frame rough against his back. The landing was softer than he expected, Connor grabbing his shoulder to steady Hank as he stood up.

The basement was huge, pockets of space taken up by old dusty furniture, junk, and warped cardboard boxes. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, Hank cursing when he stepped forward and almost tripped on the leg of a broken chair. The air was musty, making Hank’s nose wrinkle, motes of dust milling through the air from their abrupt entrance.

“We should head to the main floor,” Connor said, the beam of the flashlight flashing over the rest of the room, pausing on a door in the far corner. “There.”

Together, they made their way across the basement, stopping at the exit. “Please tell me it’s not locked.”

Connor gripped the doorknob and pushed it open, the scrape of wood indicating that the door had warped over the years. Nonetheless, the roof didn’t come tumbling down on top of them, which was promising.

The hallway was wide, a room to the left looking to have been a communal pantry back in the day. Further exploration yielded a series of classrooms, a dining room, and a gymnasium. “This place is huge.”

“There have been many attempts over the years to renovate the building, but each time the cost to do so has been exorbitant and any potential investors quickly backed out,” Connor informed, pressing forward as he spied a stairwell at the end of the hallway.

Hank trooped up the stairs after Connor. “Despite the recent economic boom, Detroit will always have places like these. Physical ghosts of the past, slowly falling to pieces, lost to the race of progress.”

His mouth about fell open when they entered the main sanctuary, much of the original Gothic architecture intact in spite of its old age. A balcony circled the entirety of the room with a large ornate skylight overhead in the ceiling at the center of it all. 

“You can’t say the setting isn’t appropriate to the occasion,” Connor said lightly, turning to glance at Hank who quickly shook himself out of his reverie. He put aside the urban beauty of their location and let his inner cop take over.

If he was chasing down suspects and could track them easily, how would he choose to approach where they had taken refuge? Astor was a lone wolf without backup. His options were limited, but he was driven and wouldn’t stop until he’d achieved his goal.

“We need a prime vantage point,” Hank replied, heading out of the sanctuary towards the front entrance. One of the wide stained-glass windows was broken, half of it lodged in the frame. Hank leaned out, the view affording him a clear view of the field before the church.

There was every chance Astor would approach from the opposite end of the building, yet the way he’d revealed himself in the alley to Hank to Connor spoke volumes about possessing a dramatic nature. Pompous bastard. 

“He'll find us, won't he?” Connor asked, coming up behind Hank and looking over his shoulder.

Hank nodded. “He can sense me. If Astor is really as obsessed with the Game as he seems, I doubt holy ground will be much of an impediment.”

It felt strange intruding in a former place of worship, even for a good reason. The abandoned landscape and vandalism and graffiti Hank had seen on the outside of the building ensured they wouldn't be bothered by anyone other than an occasional rat looking for shelter.

Connor finished dragging a bench towards the front door. He asked softly upon taking a seat on it, “Back in the car, you hesitated to tell me where we would be safe.” He shifted to face Hank and the vulnerablity Hank saw made his chest ache. “Why?”

Guiltily, Hank swallowed, then let out a long sigh. “I’m so tired, Connor.” He rubbed at his forehead. They’d briefly touched on this subject before, but never in any great detail. “I lost the only family I had years ago and despite trying to lose myself in police work, that hole in my life remains dark and deep.”

Connor patted the seat next to him. “If you need to unload your emotional burdens, I am an excellent listener.”

“It was a long time ago,” Hank said, torn between wanting to keep ghosts in the past where they belonged and come clean at last. “I was a different man then. Hell, I didn’t even drink alcohol that much.”

Connor lightly laughed. “I will admit that is very hard to imagine.”

“My son Cole,” Hank said, his tone soft, the image of his smiling face rising in his memory unbidden. “Well, stepson to be exact. When I came into his life, he was three and his mom was already out of the picture. I loved that kid like he was my own.”

A hand gently touched Hank's and he closed his fingers around Connor's, thankful for the unobtrusive support. “And Evan? He was a sweetheart, but god forbid you pissed him off. Man could hold grudges like no one else.”

They sat in silence for a while before Hank spoke again. “They were everything to me and losing them felt like I died at the same time. I suppose that’s why suicide seemed natural to me. Obviously, it didn’t take.

“The sole way I can is through decapitation.” Dreading it, but needing to make his intentions clear, Hank reached out with his free hand and touched the back of Connor’s shoulder. “Which brings me to asking you for a favor.”

There was a touch of doubt in Connor's eyes as he surveyed Hank, waiting.

“Civilians can't interfere in Immortal games,” Hank informed in as much of a neutral tone as he could manage. “When Astor comes, you have to let me handle it, Connor.”

“You only have your gun.”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, I know. If he's done any digging into my background, he'll know that and be prepared. I did do some training with a sword, but that was a long time ago.”

He could feel the muscles on Connor's shoulder underneath his fingers bunch up, unease filling Connor's features. “Then what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to let him finish the job fate cruelly denied me 42 years ago,” Hank announced, surprised at the anger and pain Connor displayed as he stepped away from Hank. “That’s always been the plan,” he said defensively. “Ever since I woke up like this.”

The amount of anger and hurt in Connor’s expression was immense. “Which you conveniently never mentioned to me in all these years together,” he shot back, raising his voice.

Hank gamely pressed on, hoping he could get Connor to see sense. “Your job is simple. Stand back and don't interfere.”

The fists at Connor's sides tightened. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

The tears that filled Connor's eyes as he looked at him directly was a jolt to Hank's system. Though he got emotional at times, Connor rarely cried. Hank hated that he had driven him to it.

“Connor…”

“Screw your plan, Hank. I refuse to let you commit suicide,” Connor said, his words crisp and loud as if daring Hank to even contradict him. He strode forward, lifting one hand and poking Hank in the chest hard. “If you won't fight for your life, I **will** , the rules be damned.”

Hank blinked, trying to reconcile the fiercely angry man in front of him with the meek one who had tracked him down in Jimmy’s Bar that first night, eager to blindly follow the orders he was given.

But he couldn't. No, the person in front of him was new and different. How he could have been blind to Connor's strength of will was beyond him. There was no talking to someone so dedicated to their own goals.

Hank started to reach up to touch Connor when a familiar dark voice rang out from the front of the church, confirming Hank's intuition had been right on the money.

“Mr. Anderson, I believe I did ask you to make this whole process easier on me.”

Connor went for the door, pausing to look at the hole in the wall next to it. He crouched, sticking his hand into the dark area, grunting as he pulled out a long steel pipe with a jagged edge at the top that had seen better days. As far as weapons went, Connor could have done worse. 

Getting to his feet, Hank yanked on Connor’s arm, caught off-guard when Connor swung out and buried a fist deep into his gut. Falling to his knees as he tried to steady his breathing, Hank called out, “Wait.”

Connor glanced back, a hard flint in his eyes.

“You can't go.”

A single tear dropped down Connor's cheek. “Someone has to and I believe I'm the man for the job. Now stay here while I save you from yourself.”

He wiped at his face before jerking the door open, the sky choosing that exact instant to unleash the rain it had been threatening Detroit with all day.

Fucking perfect timing. They couldn't have asked for a more dramatic backdrop to the proceedings.

Astor looked amused as Connor walked up to him, steel pipe held at his side. “You've sent me your doll. How very quaint.”

Connor gathered himself together, looking fierce. “Please don't do this,” he pleaded. “As I understand it, there are many other Immortals out there that would find this Game much more amusing. Hank merely wishes to carry on as he has been.”

Watching from the church entrance, holding an arm over his aching stomach, Hank’s heart raced. He could never have predicted the turn things had taken. Connor was even more stubborn than he was.

Astor put his head to the side. “Filled you in, has he? That's rather frowned upon in our niche community.” The man paused. “Do you intend to fight me in his place?”

“Yes,” Connor said, looking prepared as hell to do battle with only a steel pipe to call his own.

“I admit that is an intriguing prospect,” Astor replied. “How long can an android hold out against my well-honed sword?”

Connor set his shoulders. “Care to find out?”

Astor's smiled widely. “Oh, I like you, you're quite spunky for an artificial human.” He held out his blade. “Let's dance, puppet.”

Hank knew from his time with Connor that his partner was fast, human criminals easy prey for him in the course of his duty. However, Astor seemed to anticipate that, blocking Connor’s first blow easily. His sword swept out, narrowly missing Connor as he danced out of the way, the pair moving swiftly over the wet lawn in their energetic duel.

Each clang of weapons made Hank wince, a mess of anxiety as he feared for Connor’s life. He didn’t know if CyberLife had seen fit to release Connor out into the world with a working knowledge of swordsmanship, but doubted it. All the speed in the world couldn’t match Astor’s clear show of skills, likely having centuries of practice under his belt. 

Grunting in triumph when Connor stabbed Astor on his left side, the blow going deep, Hank’s breath stuttered as Astor's sword swung down in a quick arc.

He thought Connor had managed to dodge until he stood up, a spray of arterial blue blood shooting out as Connor's right arm fell to the ground, the limb sliced cleanly off, leaving his steel pipe stuck in Astor’s midsection.

It was almost comical, Connor merely glancing at the injury in reaction, backing away towards the church entrance, quickly falling to his knees. Hank rushed towards him while Astor coughed, blood trickling out of his mouth. He reached for the pipe in his side, the fight temporarily paused as each party regrouped.

“Connor,” Hank breathed, coming up on his partner’s side to put pressure on Connor’s wound, the blue blood hot against his fingers. “You have to stop.”

He didn’t know how fast it took for androids to bleed out, but the amount pouring down Connor’s side was disturbing to say the least.

Astor was down but not out, already recovering as Hank watched, the pipe halfway removed. Soon enough he’d begin to heal, all of Connor’s hard work gone to pot. Astor had already broken the rules of the Game by attacking them on holy ground and now by involving what was essentially an innocent in the fight.

“You…care for that piece of plastic?” Astor snarled, his voice mocking.

Hank glared outright, his response born out of habit. Despite laws having been put in place to protect and provide androids with human rights, some people still couldn’t get their heads around the new status quo. “He’s a person, asshole.”

“Hank.” His attention went straight to Connor who was starting to stand up despite his own grievous injury. “You can’t let him win.”

Hank yanked off his jacket, proceeding to rip off the sleeves. He tied them together, placing the makeshift bandage around Connor’s upper chest after his partner had raised his remaining arm up helpfully. “Connor, why are you doing this?”

Looking as if he couldn’t quite understand why Hank was questioning him, Connor frowned. “I should think the reason should be rather obvious, even to someone as dense as you. You’ve never let me say it, Hank.”

Hank had been terrible to Connor at first, it was only when he’d seen the android exhibit all the marks of humanity that his opinion of them had turned around. He’d proved himself to be an excellent detective and partner, as well as a generous lover. True, inviting Connor to live with him had been born out of kindness and pity, but it had quickly evolved into something else altogether.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Connor admitted earnestly. “I know life hasn’t been what you wanted it to be and I can never make up for your losses, but inviting death like this is wrong. You have to fight.”

Astor started to rise from the ground, the hole in his side healed up, his gaze intent on them.

Reminded of what Simone had said upon leaving him decades ago, that he had to find someone to fight for, Hank narrowed his eyes.

He retrieved the gun he’d been storing in the small of his back and handed it to Connor. “Listen, I have to go get something. Aim for vital areas and it’ll slow him down as his body regenerates.”

He leaned close and kissed Connor’s sweaty forehead. “Don’t die on me.”

Connor smiled weakly as Hank leaned back. “Likewise.”

“Little smart-ass,” he muttered good-naturedly under his breath. Trusting Connor to keep himself alive, Hank ran for the car parked behind the copse of trees, the sudden sound of gunshots behind him sending a chill up Hank’s spine. He really hoped Connor was making the limited number of bullets at their disposal count. 

Popping open the trunk, Hank never thought he'd have to use the weapon hidden in the bottom of it. In fact, Hank hadn’t seen the point when his mentor had given it to him. He had never had any intention of playing the Game in the first place so having a sword meant nothing to him, but training with it had proved to be a great distraction from his immense grief.

The familiar heft of the sword when he took hold of it brought back memories. Hours and hours of back and forth training with Simone, upon days and years.

If he wouldn't fight for himself, Hank could at least fight to protect Connor from further harm. Letting him get far away enough that Astor would lose interest in Connor altogether. After all, all he wanted was Hank’s head.

“Okay, let's do this.” Hank's grip on the sword hilt tightened in anticipation of the rough time ahead of him.

Running back towards the front of the church, Hank was just in time to see Connor fall to the ground, Astor’s sword barely missing his right leg. He raised the weapon high in the air, clearly aiming for Connor’s head.

Before he could complete the swing, Hank rushed in, knocking Astor’s blade away.

“Stay away from him, you bastard,” Hank snarled as he stepped in front of Connor, Hank’s gun lying at his side likely empty, holding a hand against his severed arm, bright blue blood dripping from his fingers. 

Astor took in the weapon clutched in Hank's hands. “I knew you had to have one. This fight has finally gotten interesting.”

Simone would have hated Hank for getting lazy and complacent about keeping up his training. For assuming he'd never have to use the skills she'd relentlessly pounded into him years ago.

“Shut up.” Hank raced forward, slashing out with his sword. When Astor's blade met his own in a downward arc, the strength behind the blow vibrated down Hank's arm, his fingers going numb for a second.

Oh, this was bad.

With effort, Hank pushed back, kicking out with his leg at Astor's midsection. The man flinched and jerked back, putting space between them. Was Hank crazy or did he look slightly uneasy?

The one advantage Hank had over Astor was his unpredictability. Being rusty meant there was no rhyme or reason to his moves, Astor having to be on guard against him until he saw a weakness in Hank he could exploit.

Astor put his sword down for a moment. “Do you want to know how I managed to find you?”

“Not really,” Hank shot back, sighing when Astor started into his explanation already. What was it with bad guys and monologues?

“I’ve been exploring family trees and have found more often than not, those with a known Immortal ancestor are more likely to wake up as one. Your face, Mr. Hank Anderson, bears a striking resemblance to a rather infamous Immortal. 

“Kurgan took quite a lot of heads before someone ultimately cut him down,” Astor informed. “It was a blow to hear considering how long I'd been wanting to face him myself.”

Hank was hardly listening, more focused on the sword Astor held in his hand. When it would start in on him again, how long he could hold it off.

Running had proved meaningless, Hank's only choice facing Astor down. Whether or not he could actually beat the man wasn't clear. In all likelihood, Hank wouldn't survive the fight. 

Without warning, perhaps angry Hank had ignored his spiel, Astor lunged forward, his sword catching Hank across the top of the right shoulder. He reacted fast enough that the blow was shallow, not dealing any damage to any nerves or tendons there.

Already at enough of a disadvantage as Hank was, adding injuries on top of it was foolhardy.

Gritting his teeth at the rain of blows Astor rained down upon him, not even giving Hank an opening to slip into, the man had the gall to mock him at the same time. With nearly every strike, Astor sliced a bit of Hank’s skin, the sharp pain a regular burst Hank had to endure, unable to dodge everything.

“Very sloppy sword work, Anderson,” Astor breathed out between attacks. “Not been keeping up any practice?”

Hank was forced back under a barrage of well-aimed swings, hoping he didn’t slip in the mud.

“Would. You. Shut. Up?!” He was breathing hard, sweat soaking into the clothes on his back. Sword fighting was tougher than he remembered and so very different than the sparring he’d done with Simone.

As Astor momentarily paused, Hank noticed that the man’s breath was growing unsteady, even as he pressed his attack on Hank. Were his swift strikes getting slower?

Hank belatedly realized that intentionally or not, in the earlier scuffle with Connor, his partner’s efforts had eaten into Astor’s stamina, his energy starting to lag a bit.

It felt like the fight had gone on forever, but Hank knew hardly any time had passed at all. Five minutes at most.

The next exchanges of blows would most likely decide everything. 

There was a sudden click of metal behind him, Hank recognizing the sound as of a gun safety sliding back. He’d assumed Connor had used all the ammunition up, but maybe he had been wrong on that count.

“Step aside, Hank!” Following the command, Hank jumped back, looking to Connor as he aimed his gun at Astor one-handed, triumphant. “You shouldn’t have messed with us."

He pulled the trigger, the bullet actually breaking through the sword Astor hurriedly raised and striking him on the side of the neck, severing one of the main arteries. Blood burst from the area, quickly painting the air and coating his clothes.

Astor gurgled, his words slurred as he said, “But you…were…empty.”

Connor smirked. “It’s called a long-term strategy and it’s paid off in dividends.” 

Hank tried to remember if he’d mentioned to Connor that neck injuries on Immortals were among the slowest to heal. If he hadn’t, Connor had merely gone for the easy kill, getting lucky in the process. But Connor definitely had to work on his comebacks.

“Not…very sporting.”

Approaching Astor as he gradually went pale, both hands tight against his mortal wound, Hank chuckled darkly. “Turnabout is fair play, asshole.” 

Summoning as much strength as he could manage, Hank swung his sword in a wide arc, the sharp blade biting through Astor’s upraised hands and neck.

A thin line of blood dripped off his sword as he lowered it to his side, watching a thick red band appear and spread wider on Astor’s throat until the top of his head fell backward, gravity taking hold.

As soon as Astor's head hit the ground, a jolt ran up Hank's spine, ozone gathering in the air around him, the hair on the back of his arms standing up. Ah, shit, he'd forgotten about this part, never expecting he’d even experience a Quickening in his lifetime.

Having no idea how grounded Connor was when it came to electricity, Hank shoved him away when he came close and ran, trying to put a good amount of distance between them.

“Hank?”

“Stay away,” he shouted, Connor complying with his wishes, a confused expression splashed across his face.

Hank could taste metal on his tongue seconds before massive bolts of lightning struck Hank dead on, razing across every inch of his body, all his senses blown wide open by the stimulation. What little glass remained in the cathedral windows shattered instantly, flinging glass through the air in all directions.

Though it should have been impossible, the electrical energy merged with his whole being, flashes of Astor's life buzzing across the forefront of Hank’s mind, taking center stage.

He'd been much older than Hank, the memories pouring in starting in what seemed to be England. Funny, Astor had no trace of an accent whatsoever. Perhaps it had faded over the years.

It was a duel with someone else that he'd lost that had started his Immortal awakening, Astor quickly becoming obsessed with the Game once he'd learned of it. He never wanted to be the loser again.

Preparation, hunting, execution. Those were the fundamentals that governed Astor's life for centuries, a parade of Immortal faces going slack in death before his eyes as they lost their heads to his sword. Sometimes Astor kept one for a while as a reminder of his accomplishment.

Seeing himself through Astor's eyes was bizarre, Hank going through all the motions of everyday life unknowingly observed.

At a coffee shop, a memory from a few weeks ago, he leaned out and touched Connor's hand, the warm happy expression on Hank's face as he did so sparking a sudden epiphany.

Before he could see it through to its end, the flow of memories abruptly cut off, Hank's body seizing as his feet hit the ground again, white electrical arches flowing from him into the earth.

His chest felt like it was on fire, foreign strength, a holdover from Astor, sinking into the framework of Hank's body, becoming his own.

The charge that had struck him faded, leaving Hank crumpled on the church field, panting wildly. He thought he'd be tired, but he was anything but. Hank stared at his hand, opening and closing it as he processed what had happened.

“Hank!”

“Wait,” he replied, holding up a hand when it looked like Connor was going to grip his shoulder in concern. “It might not be safe.”

Connor retreated within himself, his eyes going dull. He blinked and nodded. “It's fine.”

“Great.” Hank blew out a breath, the feel of Connor's hand on his back a welcome touch. “That's great.” He felt downright giddy. If it were always like this after a Quickening, Hank could understand why Astor was so addicted to it.

“What the hell was that?”

Hank flashed him a grin. “That would be a Quickening, a supernatural inheritance. I took everything he was into me.”

He reached out for Connor's shirt collar and pulled him down upon his knees to the ground, Connor confused until Hank kissed him hard, his fingers tightening around Connor's forearm.

Any resistance on Connor's part quickly melted away under Hank's onslaught, his one good arm bunching on the charred clothes on Hank's back as he groaned, enjoying the sudden attention despite his injury.

Tension beginning to coil tightly in his lower body, his nerves singing, Hank finally pulled back. He stared at Connor as he struggled to catch his breath, at the way the rain ran down his cheek, the passion in Connor's eyes aimed solely at him.

This was a man who'd fought tooth and nail to keep Hank breathing and despite not wanting to face it in the years they’d been together, avoiding the subject whenever it came up, Hank knew exactly why.

He really hadn’t known that he actually returned Connor's feelings. After everything in his past, that part of him was dead and buried. Until Connor had come along and revived it without Hank even being aware of it.

Though he hadn’t realized, Hank had been holding back, unable to take that one last step with Connor. After all, what was the use of committing to a relationship if you expected an ax to fall upon your neck at any moment?

Through eight long years, Connor didn’t seem to mind Hank’s pessimistic attitude, accepting it as the status quo, displaying the patience of a goddamned saint.

He deserved better. _He would get better_ , Hank promised himself.

“Are you all right, Hank?” Connor asked imploringly, his hand coming up to brush against Hank's chest.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Hank felt the stirrings of hope inside him. An emotion he had thought he'd lost the capacity for altogether.

In spite of the difficulties that laid before them: disposing of Astor's body, fixing up Connor's arm, and everything else to come in the future, Hank wasn't worried.

“I'm just fine.”

Somehow, staring down the face of eternity didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Not with someone else to walk at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to let me know what you thought. :)


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